


Room 93

by autumnmycat



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Bulimia, Concept Fiction, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Halsey - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Survivor Guilt, Unrequited Love, dubcon, noncon, toxic masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:45:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 67,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5822056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnmycat/pseuds/autumnmycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arcadia Bay has become the place that people whisper about. It is the Badlands of the Pacific Northwest, and everyone is caught up in figuring out exactly what happened leading up to the storm and what happened after. But, when it comes down to it, no one really knows who is the protagonist and who is the antagonist.</p><p>Chapter 13: They're lacing the same shoes that they've worn through, but it's different now. After all, if you've hit rock bottom, there's nowhere to look but up. And, Max and Chloe have definitely hit rock bottom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Young God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One: Young God — Everyone knows that Rachel Amber and Mark Jefferson slept together.
> 
> TW: rape/noncon/dubcon/jeffershit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He says, "Oh, baby girl, don't get cut on my edges."
> 
> But, Do you feel like a Young God?
> 
> We'll be flying through the streets with the people underneath.

She knows this is a mistake the moment he answers the door.

“Rachel?”

He acts surprised, but the glint in his eyes from the porch light indicates that this is all according to The Plan.

“Uh, hi, Mr. Jefferson.” She’s rehearsed this a million times. “Can I come in?”

He moves away from the door, gesturing that she is welcome. “Of course.”

With her head held high and her breathing steady, Rachel steps inside. It is an unsurprisingly neat apartment with the scent of citrus surface cleaner and various chemicals used to develop film. Black and white art pepper the walls. A light is on at a desk. The room is not well lit. Rachel’s nervousness permeates the air just as much as Jefferson’s silent smugness.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks. “I don’t have much besides water. I don’t know if it’s exactly PC to offer, but I do have whiskey.”

She thinks for probably a moment too long before answering. It’s tempting to have a glass a whiskey with this very attractive man, but she has to stay focused. “Water would be great.”

And then, he disappears. Rachel ventures over to the black suede couch and sits, taking up as little room as possible. She knows this is the last chance she has to back out before she gets herself in Too Deep. It’s not like she hasn’t dealt with older men before. It's not like she hasn't dealt with Mark Jefferson before. Heck, if Frank knew she were here, he would probably have Jefferson’s head. Yet, there is something different about the situation that she can’t put her finger on. Maybe it's because she's out of her comfort zone. She's entering _his territory._  They've hooked up before, sure, but this is different.

If it were a case of “fuck the teacher, get an A,” she would be set, but something in the back of Rachel’s head tells her that there’s something more than that going on.

Jefferson comes back into the room with the most dressed up glass of water Rachel has ever seen. It has perfectly square ice cubes, and a lime wedge placed on the rim, and it is in a glass that Jefferson probably drinks whiskey out of. Rachel feels as though someone on tumblr would probably make a joke about how this water has great aesthetic.

He hands it to her, and she smiles kindly back, placing the lime in her water.

“Oh, wow, thank you. This is a very pretty glass of water.”

“Nothing but the best for you, Rachel.”

Mr. Jefferson sits in an arm chair only a few feet from the couch. She breathes in deeply as if to speak, but he begins before she can get a word out.

“So, what brings you here today?”

Rachel gingerly sips her water before speaking. She dimly acknowledges that it must be unfiltered water because it almost tastes more metallic than the city water normally tastes. So, he dresses up his water glasses instead of just serving better water? Gross. 

“I was wondering if you could shoot some photos of me. I know you probably are way too busy, but I'm willing to pay whatever your rate is, even though that's probably the bare minimum of what I can do.” 

This is so wildly untrue that it borders on the absurd. He literally has asked her to pose for him before free of charge. Rachel clearly is not here to get her portrait taken. 

The whole thing is so comedic that Jefferson allows his lips to perk up into a small smirk. 

“Is that so?”

He's calling her on her game. But, Rachel would never let on. 

“You’re one of the most talented and honest photographers of this decade, and there’s no one else that I would want more than you.”

Rachel’s language is intentionally titillating. She catches a muscle in his cheek twitching.

Oh, alright. 

"Sorry, was that too much?"

"Never. You know that I'm not above blatant flattery."

She puts a hand in front of her mouth and giggles the way she does in front of the Vortex Club members. Her face feels very hot. She hopes Jefferson is enjoying the show. “Of course."

This is all such a performance. They act like his head hasn't been between her legs.

"I hope you don't think I'm too full of myself. I just feel the need to capture art when I see it."

But in typical Rachel style, she carries on the charade.

“No, really, you’re amazing. Blackwell obviously thinks so since they busted their asses to get you on staff.”

“Maybe so, but please, don’t worry about it. I’d be very glad to help you out.”

"Really? Thank you."

“Yes, I think you have a very appealing aesthetic. Big doe eyes. They’re charming.”

Oh my. Rachel’s heart leaps in her chest. 

(It begins to occur to Rachel that she feels slightly…fuzzy. Just a bit. Like the edges of her consciousness are fraying. She isn’t sure whether it is from Jefferson’s charisma or the warm air of the room. She takes another sip, hoping the feeling is just from the butterflies in her stomach.)

“T-Thank you. Goodness, that means a lot coming from you.” 

"It's no problem at all."

Rachel finds herself without anything to say, which is a very foreign feeling. Normally, words just fall off her tongue. Telling people what they want to hear is so easy that it's hard to stop herself from doing it in the first place. But, now, she can't figure out what the proper line of conversation should be. 

And, Jefferson notices immediately. 

"Are you alright, Rachel?"

It dawns on her very suddenly that her skin feels like it’s burning, but not in a flushing type way. It's more like her cheeks were a collection of pins and needles. 

“Uh, it’s a little warm in here…”

His smile is more than a smile now, but Rachel can't figure out what's different about him. 

“Oh, sorry about that. I can open a window,” he says, about to get up.

“No, that’s okay, I’ll get it,” she says, but the moment she goes to stand, the fuzziness in her head becomes much more plush and she stumbles forward, glass tumbling out of her hand and body falling onto carpet. Still alert, Rachel scrambles in embarrassment, doing her best to get to her feet. Thankfully, Jefferson is right there to help her up.

“Oh God, I’m sorry—your glass—Jesus Christ—“

“Hey, hey, calm down. It’s okay. This carpet has seen worse.” Rachel does not pick up the sharp edge he ends the sentence with.

She tries to keep her focus steady, but she finds she can’t. Everything is whirling around and she feels very disorientated.

“Are you okay, Rachel?” Jefferson says.

She blinks hard. His voice sounds distant. Something’s wrong. Is she getting sick? Did she eat something weird? She’s slow. And she is slow very suddenly.

It is obvious that this is strange, that this is Not Right. She’s been to parties like this. She’s been given drinks because she may or may not be old enough and woken up on the couch hours later with very little idea of what happened that night. And this time, there’s no alcohol. There’s no party. There’s just a man and a fancy water glass and her whirling mind.

“Rachel?”

The words come out of her mouth before she can stop them.

“Did you drug me?”

Jefferson doesn’t do a very good job looking surprised, probably because he isn’t trying to. The concerned look falls away, and his smug eyes return.

“Yes. Is that okay?”

The realization dawns on her that this is The Catch.

Slowly, she nods and says, “Yes.”

“Very good.”

Her heart speeds up the moment his tone drops. That’s it. Jefferson’s catch is that he’s a perv. Nothing too crazy. He just likes his girls a little out of it. What guy didn’t these days? This couldn't possibly be worse than that other time. 

She tries to maintain her cool, but her mouth feels very loose.

“Are you gonna fuck me too?” she blurts. Her speech is slurring. She notices that Jefferson is holding her arms to make sure she stays upright. His touch burns through her skin.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Rachel?”

She’s not so far gone that she isn't creeped the fuck out by the question.

“That’s not what I asked.”

The next thing Rachel knows, Jefferson pushes her towards the wall and pins her wrist over her head, and even though this whole exchange is giving her a pit in her stomach, her gasp is enough to make him smirk.

“Rachel,” he says evenly. “I told you not to get cut on my edges.”

Rachel didn’t exactly know what he meant by that, but she’s getting a pretty good idea now.

“Why are you doing this, Mr. Jefferson—“

“Shh, shh. You can call me Mark.”

She feels the urge to shudder, but only repeats his name.

“ _Mark_.”

“Now, isn’t that better? A few barriers broken through already.”

“I think we’ve already passed that stage.”

“Oh? I suppose we have.”

This time, she does shudder. His tone is much too low for her liking. She glances up at her wrist but does not struggle again his hold. Redirecting the conversation, she says, “Will you let me go?”

For a moment, he looks to be very deeply amused by the whole thing.

“I don’t know. Can you help me?”

Without hesitating, she answers back.

“Yes.”

He smiles. “Alright. Let’s get started.”

 

* * *

 

She sits daintily on the edge of the bed, her black undergarments shielding her from Jefferson’s DSLR. This pose is more like her than being pinned to his living room wall, but it’s getting more difficult to focus and hold still.

Her head very slightly lulls to the side, blonde hair spilling over her neck and chest. Jefferson’s camera _click, click, clicks_. His voice purrs verbal applause, and it makes her heart palpitate. She cringes when he moves her hair away from her face.

She knows this is wrong. He shouldn’t be taking these kind of photos. He shouldn’t have drugged her. And Rachel knows she shouldn’t have let him. But here they are. It’s past the point of _regret/blame/fault/fault/fault,_ but Rachel’s slowed brain still tosses the idea around.

 _You should stop_.

As much as she desperately hates this, she also loves the attention (however forced it may be). She does want Jefferson to love her. Maybe in a twisted, manipulative way, he’s giving her what she wants.

Rachel does not realize that she is starting to slump. The drugs are beginning to be too much for her. But, Jefferson does not see this as a reason to stop. He takes her picture as the light in her eyes dim. She doesn’t know why he keeps going. She can’t possibly look _good._

She finds herself on the floor, eyes desperately trying to keep their focus, but they’re rolling around in her head like marbles.She’s tired. She wants to sleep. She sees the lens of the camera as Jefferson’s face. It stares down at her, captures her weakness as she fades into an infantile stupor.

The darkness at the edges of her vision threaten to engulf her. She groans, feeling a hand on her body. She fades away, feeling lips on her cheek.

…

The next few hours come to her in whirls of color and sounds, of dimmed sensations, and of terror.

Cold air pricks at her skin. Hands touch her.

 

…

“ _You’re so beautiful, Rachel.”_

She gasps because something is between her thighs. She cries because who knew tongues could be weapons?

 

 

…

She gags, sputters. He grunts. She shakes her head wildly, but the grip on her hair is too strong, and the medication is even stronger.

 

 

 

…

She opens her eyes, and his face is a blur, but she knows she is being pressed against a wall, and she is not really in pain anymore—but—but she wants it to be over now.

It’s too bad she can’t keep her eyes open anymore.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Rachel awakens to find herself in her dorm room.

Her head throbs like she drank too much. Her body hurts all over. When she shifts to see the clock on the bedside table, she finds herself groaning at the pain in her thighs, the pain in her neck, the pain of every muscle imaginable.

She is overwhelmed with the feeling of guilt, embarrassment, and disgust. She thought she could handle this, but it is clear that she is in over her head.

Tears leak down her cheeks before she can stop them.

Her phone, which is also on her bedside table, lights up, but she cannot bear to look at who is talking to her. It’s probably Frank, or Nathan, or even worse, Chloe. How is she supposed to talk to anyone when she feels so disgusting, like every part of her has been exposed for the entire world to document.

She rolls over and falls back into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Rachel doesn’t go to class the next day. She stays in her room and sleeps. She’s afraid if she wakes up for more than a few minutes, she might do something she’ll regret.

 

* * *

 

She manages to get out of bed on Tuesday. She showers and takes up all the hot water, but it's not enough to get rid of the  _shame/blame/fault/fault/fault_.

Chloe calls her at exactly nine. Rachel ignores her for probably the fiftieth time in the past three days. She turns her phone on silent and shoves it in her bag. She can't deal with Chloe or Frank or anyone for that matter because her first class of the day is with Mr. Mark Jefferson.

She laughs to herself. What a fucking joke. Mark Jefferson is a fucking joke. A fucking creep. He drugged and raped her, and she fucking let it happen.

_Rachel Amber is a fucking joke._

The next thing she knows, she's sitting in her seat in the Photography Lab. It's still twenty minutes before the class starts. There's no one in the room except for her thoughts.

Unfortunately.

She puts her head down and hopes to God that she dies before Mr. Mark Jefferson walks through the door, but that is not something that will happen. Instead of the teacher walking through the door, Nathan does.

"Rachel?"

She flinches, but doesn't move otherwise. 

He gets closer, and she just wants him to  _go away._ God, if she could never ever ever ever have a man lay a hand on her, it will be too soon.

"Hey, Rach, are you okay?"

This time, she looks up and catches his eyes. She's so tired and worn that she is not surprised when Nathan gives her a look of surprise.

"What do you want?" she hisses, pushing herself off the desk and leaning back in her chair, arms crossed.

"Uh, nothing, I just wanted to see—"

"Okay. Whateverthefuck you want, I don't want to be a part of it right now."

He looks hurt. He looks like he's about to explain himself.

"No. Don't try. I'm not about it. Leave me alone."

Nathan, against his better judgement, holds up his hands in surrender and walks out of the classroom.

Rachel Amber puts her head down and waits for the universal inevitability of class to start.

 

* * *

 

They've finally started on chiaroscuro — a topic that Rachel would normally be all about, but now she doesn't even want to think of _how_ —

_How did her body look in the light of his bedroom? Was it perfect? Did the shadows drape across her face, caress her cheeks like Mark eventually did—?_

She's woken up by his deep voice.

“Does anyone know the answer?”

A few kids raise their hands, but Rachel does not look up from her notes. Usually she’s the first one to answer because she wants to impress Mr. Jefferson, but considering she’s pretty sure she had his dick in her mouth, she figures she doesn’t need to try very hard in class anymore.

When the girl who answers has to look at Rachel in confusion before she speaks, Rachel knows she can’t play dumb. Reluctantly, she lets her gaze fall dully to the back of the room. Jefferson doesn’t try to meet her eyes, and for that, she is thankful.

It doesn’t take long for Nathan to notice that Rachel is acting weird—weirder even than she acted before class started. She is distant. She is scared. He also notices that Jefferson is not making any comments about it, not even trying to get a reaction out of her. He files these things in the back of his brain for future reference.

He files this under,  _I hope to God that Jefferson hasn't done what I think he has_.

This is a very large file. He just doesn't want to see Rachel Amber's name in it.

 

* * *

 

She knows that being at the Lighthouse is literally the worst place in history to hide because everyone in Arcadia Bay knows she comes here.

She is three cigarettes in when she hears footsteps. She thinks it is Chloe, but when she turns, it is Nathan Prescott. He is the only person in the entire world that she wants to see less than Chloe and Frank combined. Well, maybe  _Mark_  wins that prize.

"What do you want?" she barks, bringing out fake anger and confidence in order to protect herself.

"Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

Rachel rolls her eyes in a grandiose gesture but does not stop Nathan from sitting on the bench next to her. She lights cigarette Number Four and takes a long drag. She blows the smoke out over the edge of the cliff and into the Pacific Ocean.

Nathan frowns when she passes the cigarette to him.

“What happened?”

It seems that Rachel has other things on her mind because the sound of his voice shocks her.

“Huh? What happened when?”

“I don’t know. This weekend. You were acting weird in Jefferson’s class.”

Her body tenses at the sound of his name.

“Nothing happened.” Rachel’s voice is hard and clinical. She steals the cigarette back from Nathan and puffs and puffs. They are silent for a long time.

“That…sounds like bullshit, Rach.”

She balks at him. Her expression is incredulous.

“How would you know? Are you his little bitch or something?”

“Uh, no. Are you?”

Rachel throws her head back and laughs. Her voice echoes around and around in Nathan’s head, and it makes his cheeks burn. 

“Yeah, no. He wishes.”

She somehow knows that she's not the only one who's lying.

For once in his life, Nathan tries to choose his words wisely.

“I know you’re into him, Rach.”

“Yeah, me and every other girl at Blackwell,” Rachel sneers. It is obvious that she is not having this. She didn’t hang out with Nathan to be fucking interrogated. Nathan doesn’t blame her, to be fair.

He keeps pressing anyway. Something about this makes him believe this is important.

“You didn’t even make _eye contact_ with him today. No offense, but you’re usually all up his ass.”

She visibly cringes at Nathan’s choice of words. Her tough guy visage is failing fast. It always did around Nathan, after all.

“Fuck you,” she spits, but she does not get up and leave like Nathan is afraid of. Rachel looks as though she might breathe fire, but just as fast as the anger sets in, her face collapses and tears shake her shoulders.

Nathan is right there, arms wrapped around Rachel so tight that he’s afraid she’ll break.

“Oh God, Nate, I’m s-sorry. I’m s-so sorry—“

This is not the reaction Nathan expected. Even though she is not always as strong as she leads people to believe, Rachel rarely breaks down in hysterics. At least, not in front of people. She usually would just harden up her face, throw an insult or a joke, and move on. A pit opens up in Nathan’s stomach.

Something is wrong.

“Rach—c’mon—what’s going on? You don’t—don’t have to cry, y’know—“

She pushes away from him and shields her face with her hands. She just cries and Nathan doesn’t know what to do. He has never been good at dealing with emotions, whether it be his own or someone else’s. He’s about to speak again when Rachel chokes out barely audible words.

“I-I did it…I didn’t think it would be like this—“

“W-What did you do?”

She moves her hands away from her glossed over, sapphire eyes, and Nathan has to stop himself from visibly recoiling at the terror that has contorted her face.

“M-Mr. Jefferson— I-I, he…”

“Huh?”

“I-I was just going to ask him for some p-pictures, and t-then,” she hiccups between thoughts, her sobs interfering with the rest of her words, “he…dosed me…and…”

Nathan’s breath hitches in his throat.

_Oh no._

He got to her.

Or.

She got to him.

“…I don’t remember much. He t-took pictures…even when I was out of it…I think—I think other things happened. I can’t remember, but I think…”

Rachel lapses back into hysterics, and Nathan is stunned into silence. He has too many things to think about, too many feelings to sort and file. He doesn’t think before he speaks.

“What the fuck.”

Jefferson went back on his fucking word.

Nathan wonders where her binder is now.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long for everyone to know.

Well, they don’t _know_ , but they know. And everyone talks about it.

_“Did you hear? Rachel totally fucked Mr. Jefferson.”_

“ _Haha, I knew that bitch was a whore. I hear she sleeps with that drug dealer too.”_

She hears the voices in the hall.

“ _Poor girl. He sucked the life right out of her._ ”

“ _Yeah! Right from between her thighs!_ ”

Rachel tries her best to not listen, but it’s pretty damn difficult when one of the most traumatic things that ever happened to her is being thrown around like nothing.

She goes to the bathroom and ‘ _Rachel Amber owes me a BJ_ ,’ is plastered in black sharpie on the stall door.

She sits in class and feels eyes boring into the back of her head. Even the teachers notice the commotion. They give her pitying glances, but Rachel doesn’t even look up from her notebook to receive them.

The days pass in blurs, and Rachel isn’t even sure how she keeps managing to gets As on school work because everything else has _turned to shit_.

Chloe and Frank both call her _every goddamn day_ , but she lets them all go to voicemail. She has literally hundreds of text messages that she doesn’t bother looking at. Nathan tries to talk to her in the halls and before class, but she tries her best to keep their conversations as short as possible.

The Vortex Club treads lightly on the rumor except for fucking Victoria Chase who howls with her goonies about how Rachel is so fucking loose, blah blah blah. Rachel thinks this is funny because the only reason Victoria hates her is because _she_ wants to be the one to fuck Jefferson. Rachel has a very specific fantasy about going up to Victoria and saying, “Fine. Go get him. I'll be waiting here to clean up after.”

She knows for a definite fact that she is in over her head when she get's called into Principle Well's office.

His words pass in one ear and out the other.

"There's been...discussion about your relationship with Mr. Jefferson. And, Frank Bowers, among others."

She glances up through blonde hair.

"Okay."

Her stoic response catches Wells off guard.

"Is there anything you have to say to dispute such charges?"

"What, am I getting arrested?" Rachel laughs, leaning back in the chair. "It's gossip, Principle Wells. Obviously. When would I have time to do all these things people accuse me of? I'm always studying."

"But, you are a part of the Vortex Club, are you not?"

"Not exactly. But, contrary to popular belief, they're not all delinquents." She smiles sweetly, and Wells doesn't exactly know how to respond to her. "You know how it is, don't you? Kids are mean. They make stuff up. They want to feel important. I get it. It sucks to be at the other end of the rumors, but I can handle it."

He sighs. She offers a sympathetic half smile.

"Alright, Miss Amber. You're free to go."

"Thank you."

Her face collapses the moment she steps into the hall. She thanks God that it is after school and there's no one around to hear her cry.

 

* * *

 

It's exactly five days since Sunday. 

Friday nights are always Vortex Club ragers. She lets Nathan convince her to come.

As she sits on a couch and tries to ignore the throbbing bass and strobe lights, she finally texts people back.

[Chloe: Fuck, Rachel. Where the fuck are you.]

[I'm okay. I've just found someone who's changed my life.]

[Wait. What does that mean.]

Panic seeps into Rachel's mind. She doesn't respond. Instead, she texts Frank.

[Frank: I thought you were dead.]

[I'm not.]

[Frank: When are you coming back?]

[I don't know.]

Somehow, she knows things are not going to work out for her. Maybe she sensed it in the way Nathan's eyes flashed fear when he handed her a drink. Maybe she knew it the second she walked in the door of Jefferson's loft. All Rachel knows is that This Is Never Going To Last.

And her fears are confirmed when she can't keep her phone in her hand.


	2. Hold Me Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: Hold Me Down — It's the devil that's trying to hold Victoria Chase down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do I know you didn't kill her?
> 
> Selfish, taking what I want and call it mine.
> 
> They shush me, walking me across a fragile line.

Rachel Amber is missing, and Blackwell is in shambles.

Nathan Prescott is a fucking wreck. He disappears for a while too, but everyone knows he’s shut in his dorm room.

Mark Jefferson acts as everyone assumes he would: saddened but intentionally detached.

And Victoria Chase is fucking celebrating.

“That fucking whore got what was coming to her,” Victoria says, the smile she wears creeping into her voice. She looks at Taylor and Courtney expectantly. The girls look at each other, and Taylor is the first to break the silence.

“Y’know, Vic, you could throw a little less of a party—“

“Are you fucking kidding me? Don’t play this goody-goody game.”

“It’s just…we never thought she’d actually disappear,” Courtney mumbled, looking down.

“So. You’re on my side until shit gets real,” she growls. “Whatever.” She stands up and pushes her way through the hallway. Her fists are clenched, and she’s so angry, and…

She’s not sure exactly why she’s angry.

 

* * *

 

They sit in Jefferson’s class, and everyone is acutely aware of Her Open Seat. But, the amazing thing is Jefferson is _so_ unaffected. Everyone expected a distance between the situation because, well _duh_ , but no one thought he could be this cool.

And, Victoria’s not sure if she’s relieved or nervous.

(If Victoria disappears, would Jefferson care if she is missing? Jefferson and Rachel were, like, fucking joined at the hip, and he doesn’t so much as _glance_ at her seat.)

Victoria taps her foot. Her demons are begging her to open up her mouth. She refuses, of course, because she knows that if she answers any questions, she might accidentally start laughing, and it would be known once and for all that Victoria Chase is a fucking heartless bitch.

Well, everyone knew that already, but she didn’t need to drive the point home by laughing about the girl who may or may not be dead.

Class ends before she knows it, and she doesn’t really feel bad not participating because _no one spoke a word_. They didn’t answer questions. They just kept staring at the fucking empty seat. As the bell rings, Victoria stands up from her desk and makes a B-Line for Jefferson’s desk.

He’s cleaning up stray papers when she clears her throat. He looks up.

“Hello, Victoria. What can I do for you?”

“Well, Mr. Jefferson. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m okay. Seen better days, but most of us probably have.”

She’s glad she has those demons. She needs them sometimes.

“It’s just such _a shame_.” As hard as she tries to sound sympathetic, the words come out of her mouth mechanically.

He looks at his desk and stuffs a folder in his black shoulder bag.

“Yes, it really is. But, I assure you, class will carry on as usual. And homework is still due tomorrow.”

“O-Of course. I wasn’t—“

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting I have to get to,” he says. “See you tomorrow, Miss Chase.”

Victoria doesn’t even get the chance to get another word out because he’s out the door quicker than she’s seen him move in a while.

Her lips are pursed as she forces a breath from her nose, her whole demeanor falling into defeat. What was she doing _wrong?_ Rachel Amber was practically on his dick 24/7, and here Victoria was kissing ass just a little bit, and he just picks up and leaves? What is with this guy anyway?

She huffs and stalks out. She should probably go find Nathan, who has not shown up to class for the third time in a row.

 

* * *

 

Victoria had always thought it was funny that, even though Blackwell has separate Boys and Girls dorms, there is nothing to stop a girl to sneak up and see a guy. (Victoria also thinks it’s hilarious that they separate boys and girls, but they never think to separate the girls who like girls.)

Her mind is just musing about stupid shit because she’s really scared to see what state Nathan is in. When he functions well, he’s great, but when he goes off his meds, he’s not very easy to talk to. Victoria has a feeling Nathan has probably gone off his meds.

As much as she hates to admit it, she knows Nathan and Rachel had some kind of special relationship. Maybe it was sexual, maybe not — Victoria doesn’t want to know, but the point is, they were close, and this is probably tearing Nathan apart. Victoria isn’t _jealous_ , per say, because she really doesn’t care what or who Nathan does in his spare time, but Rachel just had _everything_ that Victoria wanted, and that made Victoria fucking livid.

Rachel Amber was cool. Calm and collected. Fucking beautiful, although no discernible sense of style besides faux baby dyke. She could sweep anyone off their feet with a bat of her perfectly made up eyelashes. Not only that, but she could charm Mr. Jefferson, Nathan, that gross ass drug dealer, and that dropout slut, and still be the most popular girl in school. How did she get to be so charismatic, so manipulative, without anyone calling her out on it?

Victoria has the reputation of being a Class A Bitch, and half of that comes from the fact that Victoria is a little bit of a bitch. But, Rachel was no fucking saint either. She had gotten on her bad side pretty quickly, both being Nathan's friend and all. They _did not_ hit it off. In fact, within five minutes of being in the same room, they already were picking at each other. But, can you really blame Victoria? This super hot chick waltzes into Blackwell Academy with her fucking hipster feathers and immediately charms _everyone_ in a five-foot radius.

That shit is fucking infuriating.

She has to take a deep breath because she is at Nathan’s door, and she needs to be the pillar of emotional stability because Nathan certainly is not going to be.

Hesitantly, she knocks on the door. There’s no answer.

“Nathan? It’s Vic. Are you okay?”

There is a silence that lasts only a few moments and then a tired voice answers.

“Come in.”

His door is unlocked, and Victoria slips into the poorly-lit room before anyone spots her. And, what she finds is about what she expected.

There are no lights on, save for the light that leaks through the cracks in the curtains. His projector is off. His bed has not been made in what looks like several days (the blankets are half on the floor, the pillow has been thrown on his couch). There are papers littering the floor, all of them with scribbles and twisted, barely intelligible pictures. And, Nathan himself looks like a wreck.

He holds his head in his hands, elbows on his desk, propping him up. He has several notebook pages spread out in front of him. Silence clings onto his skin and begins to stick to Victoria’s cashmere.

“Hey, Nate. How’re you doing?”

For a second, he doesn’t even move. But, eventually, he speaks.

“N-Not good, Vic. Not good.”

His voice sounds strangled, and Victoria walks closer.

“Anything I can—“

“Ugghh, Jesus Fucking Christ, Vic. R-Rachel…Rachel, she—“

“She’s missing,” Victoria blurts against her better judgment. _Well, duh_ , she chides herself, grimacing at her inability to keep her fucking mouth shut.

He doesn’t respond, so Victoria’s nervousness forces more drivel out of her mouth.

“Is there anything I can do? I feel really bad.”

Still nothing.

“I-I don’t know what went on between you two, but I’m really sorry—“

“Why the fuck are you talking like she’s dead?”

“W-What? That’s not what I said. She’s _missing_. But, I mean, she could be—“

He stands up abruptly, and Victoria leaps back. When he faces her, his eyes are wild with anger, melancholy, and loathing. Victoria isn’t sure who these feelings are directed to.

(She also notices that he has very dark circles under his eyes, and he looks to have aged ten years if the look of hopelessness etched around his eyes and mouth are any indication, and he’s wearing a windbreaker with sweatpants and a tank top, and Victoria can’t really figure out why he’s dressed like that—)

“Y-Yeah! No _shit!_ Don’t you think I fucking _know that_ , Victoria?”

“I-I just didn’t know if you—“

“Whateverthefuck. I don’t care. She’s gone, and you don’t give a shit.”

“I-I never said that—“

“Hah! Yeah, like it’s not fucking obvious that you fucking hate her guts. How do I know you didn’t fucking kill her?” He takes a clunky step forward, a finger pointed very closely to Victoria Chase’s face.

“Whoa, Nathan. Calm down,” she says tensely, backing up a little bit. “Are you taking your meds?”

His hand drops to his side, and he begins to laugh, his shoulders shaking.

“Meds? Ha! I never want to see fucking drugs again! Why _the fuck_ would I take those _fucking_ pills?”

“They _help you_ , Nathan!” Victoria shouts, pleading. It’s not often that desperation enters her voice, and even worse, her voice wavers as she fights back her own emotions. “Please! Can’t you see how much worse you’re doing without them?”

“Shut the fuck up, Victoria. You—You have no idea about me or my life or what could possibly help me! Being on meds makes me do awful shit, too, so why don’t you _back the fuck up._ ”

She has not yet realized that tears are streaming down her face, and her knees and hands are shaking because all she knows is ( _Oh my god, Nathan’s right, what do I know, I don’t know anything, Jesus_ Fuck _, Victoria, you selfish cunt, what the fuck were you thinking—)_

Nathan’s shoulders relax a bit when Victoria begins to wipe at her mascara-stained cheeks. But, he only turns around and looks at the tiny crack of sunlight spilling through his curtains.

“You should probably leave.”

She chokes out a muffled, “I-I’m s-s-sorry,” and rushes out of the room. Normally, Victoria would be able to collect herself, but she can’t right now, and she runs down the stairs and out the front door choking back sobs and covering her mouth with a manicured hand.

She wants to think that this is just whacked-out Nathan talking, but she can’t help but feel like this whole thing is her fault.

 

* * *

 

Monday nights are when she helps out her parents at the gallery. They pay her for her services, but it’s all very fabricated because Victoria knows she has access to all the money she could ever want. But, it does give her the ability to rub elbows with artists and photographers. Maybe that’s what her parents are trying to do for her. In all honesty, it just feels very cold and distant.

As if the Chases could be anything else.

This collection focuses on black and white portraits shot by artists younger than twenty-five. Victoria’s job is to stand by the hors d’oeuvres and offer wine. It’s easy, it’s mindless, and she gets to drink as much wine as she wants. Not a bad set up, really.

It’s really just another Monday, and Victoria is on her third glass of wine to make sure she doesn’t say anything snippy to the rich fucks who ask her for more free alcohol, but she finds her mind drifting between pours.

_How do I know you didn’t kill her?_

She stands solemnly and hears Nathan’s voice, and it’s so ripe with anger that Victoria doesn’t even know how to process it. It’s been hours, but she still can feel her stomach bottoming out with mortification.

Did she kill Rachel Amber?

The way Nathan shouts it, every word laced with anger and pain, Victoria begins to entertain the possibility. She does have a motive and no alibi—

But, wait. No one even knows if Rachel is dead. She could be off in L.A. for all anyone knows. All of this is just Nathan being angry at the world and trying to find a way to vent his anger. Victoria knows this and yet it’s still _so hard_ to believe that she isn’t the person causing Nathan’s pain.

Victoria is so deep in thought that she doesn’t notice that someone has found their way beside her.

“Evening, Miss Chase.”

Shocked out of her thoughts, Victoria’s head snaps to see a man standing next to her.

“M-Mr. Jefferson.”

A steady blush has already permeated her skin, and she doesn’t want to say something _dumb as fuck_ because not only has she been drinking, but she also can’t afford to have another person in her life tear her down. Especially not Mark Jefferson.

“What are you doing here?” Sounds safe enough.

“Even though I may be old, I like to see what up and coming artists are into.”

“Fair enough,” she says. Pushing her blonde hair back behind her ear, she gestures to the bottle she’s been holding. “Any wine?”

“You know I can’t say no to you, Victoria.”

She freezes.

 _Ho-ly_ shit.

Mr. Jefferson is fucking hitting on her.

Victoria clears her throat and grasps the bottle with both hands, giving Mark Jefferson a (little-larger-than-recommended) pour of white wine. He nods in thanks and then leans against the wall. His body language indicates that he’s not going to get up and walk away anytime soon.

“So,” he begins after taking a sip, “how do you feel about working here?”

She raises her eyebrows and frowns. He’s still _talking to her._ Placing the bottle of wine on the hors d’oeuvres table, she picks up her own glass and watches the rich fucks who pass by.

“It’s fine,” she mumbles.

Jefferson lets out a chuckle.

“Whoa, with that much contempt, you would think that it’s not fine.”

He thinks he’s funny, but Mr. Jefferson has struck a nerve.

“Yes, it’s fine that I’m working at the galleries I want to be featured in. It’s _great._ ”

When she peers up at him, he has an amused look on his face. As much as Victoria wants to like Mr. Jefferson, his fucking ego is so fucking annoying that sometimes Victoria is not sure she can handle it.

She pouts.

“Okay, pity me. That’s cool too.” After she says it, her face contorts. This must be the wine talking.

“Oh, no, no. That’s not what I meant.”

“Uh-huh.”

She takes a sip of her wine, and she thanks whatever god is out there for alcohol.

“Victoria, the thing is, you’re talented. And I’m not sure where you got the impression than you aren’t.”

She should have just shut the fuck up and accepted the complement, but she doesn’t, and she lets her mind spill out her mouth.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you were always all about Rachel Amber, and I just got the wrong idea.”

There is a sustained silence after Victoria says this, and for not the first time that day, she begins to dread silence.

“S-Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” Victoria says.

“It’s fine. To be fair, I spent a lot of time building her up when there were other students that also deserved praise.”

“Y-Yeah. I mean…I’m sorry for always being so shitty about her…”

Words are spilling out of Victoria’s mouth and the only way she knows how to fix it is to drink more wine.

“It’s fine. I think we all were shitty when it came to her.”

Victoria doesn’t understand what he means by this, but she also doesn’t argue.

“Listen,” Jefferson sighs. He finishes his pour of wine before continuing. “I think you could get into somewhere like this. You have an eye, Victoria. And, I’m not just saying that. The assignments you turned in this semester have been improving so much, and it’s exciting for me as a teacher to see your progression.”

“But, I still feel so far behind,” she says, exasperated. “Everyone is always doing cooler things than I can even think of. How am I supposed to compete with people who’re just better than me?”

“It’s not about that. The trick is to find things you’re into.”

Jefferson turns and makes sure he has eye contact with Victoria before continuing.

“You have to find something that turns you on, and you just have to take the shot. That’s what I do, and it’s worked for me so far.”

Victoria looks as though she’s about to respond, but people come up to her and ask for another pour. She has to do her job, but Jefferson _waits for her_ , and this is very surprising to her.

(Jefferson has never given her the light of day, but suddenly, he’s giving her so much attention, and Victoria doesn’t even know how to handle it. She doesn’t know if she even _likes it_ because it feels so foreign.)

Once they’re alone again, Victoria feels like she should say something.

“I visited Nathan today.”

“Oh, you did?" His tone is very cautious. "He hasn’t been in class for a while.”

“Yeah. He’s, uh, not doing well.”

There is an awkward pause as if Jefferson doesn’t know what to say.

“What do you mean?” he finally asks.

As quickly as the conversation shifts from Rachel to Nathan, Victoria goes from collected to freaked the fuck out.

“I-I don’t know. He told me that I could have killed Rachel, and he was scribbling on paper, and he looked _terrible_ , and he yelled at me, and I don’t know what _to do_ —“

“Shh, shh.”

They are face-to-face. Jefferson has knelt down so they can see eye-to-eye.

“You have to remember that you’re not in charge of Nathan or his well-being. You’ve already been a good friend by worrying about him.”

She looks sad but doesn’t rebuke.

The gallery has mostly thinned out. There are only a few people in the room, and none of them care about how close the World Renowned Photographer and the Blackwell Bitch are at this moment.

“Please, can you make sure he’s okay?” Victoria pleads, finding herself holding back tears for not the first time that day.

“Don’t worry,” he assures her, a hand placed on her arm. “I can do that.”

Her smile is all that is protecting her from breaking down into tears.

“Thank you.”

And even though the rest of the night feels strangely empty once Mark Jefferson is gone, Victoria can only sigh in relief.

Maybe she's not cut out for this kind of shit after all.


	3. New Americana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three: New Americana — Chloe grieves by smoking cigarettes and drinking tiny liquor bottles. Nathan grieves by turning girls into dolls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are they gonna do? Call the cops? Funny shit.
> 
> Nathan Prescott owns this town, so no one fucking cares.
> 
> (youareaFUCKINGmonster)

She smokes cigarettes. One after the other. She’s on cigarette number ten.

If it’s any indication that she is doing very badly, the fact that she has driven to the lighthouse and can't find the energy to leave her truck is another. She’s laying across the seats, watching thick grey smoke swirl around above her.

Ten days.

After three, she had been worried, but three became four, four became five…

Nausea tears at her stomach, and she would cry, but she feels too hopeless to put energy into something like that. She looks at her phone as she stubs out her cigarette in the ash tray.

[Rachel: I’m okay. I’ve just found someone who’s changed my life.]

She sits up, and instead of pulling out another cigarette, she fishes around for her pack of lite beer, cracking one open.

Rachel hadn’t texted Chloe back in ten days, and according to the local news, she hasn’t been spotted for that long. Rachel Amber has ditched town, and Chloe can’t decide if its worse that she’s gone or that she didn’t even fucking say anything. Something in the back of Chloe’s mind says—

_This isn’t right something isn’t right she would have said something she wouldn’t have just left me why the fuck is she gone what the fuck did I do what the fuck what the fuck_

Hopelessness turns to anger, and it tears up Chloe’s throat, pounds a fist against the dashboard. Anger turns to despair, and she cries out her name, tears finally pouring down her face. She hasn’t cried this hard since—

“F-Fuck _that_ ,” Chloe snarls.

Her own thoughts are betraying her. After all, there’s no one else left to do so.

Chloe’s beer is gone, but she finds tiny liquor bottles under her seat and she takes one, two, three shots, and she pulls out another cigarette and puffs and puffs, and she looks up at the lighthouse through the window, hoping that Rachel is actually just sitting on the bench waiting for her.

She’s not.

Finally, she opens the door to her car, boots meeting grass. Chloe shoves her phone and cigarettes in her pocket and tries to pretend like she’s not still bawling as she trudges up the hill. Her head swims with alcohol, but her heart just keeps lurching every time she thinks about her pretty blonde hair and her soft laugh and _goddamn it_.

When she gets to the top of the hill, she doesn’t sit on the bench (there’s no one to sit with). She looks out at Arcadia Bay and smokes number eleven.

This god forsaken town is _not fucking fair_.

( _First dad, then Max, now Rachel—why? Why? Why why why?_ )

Chloe stands on the edge of the cliff and it’s not the first time she contemplates falling into the water below.

 

* * *

 

His cell phone rings.

Not only is he not going to pick up his fucking phone — goddamn — but he is also very sure who is calling, and he is not going to talk to this two-faced motherfucker right now. He is not getting screamed at for all this terror—

( _You’reaFUCKINGmonster)_

“I know, I know, Jesus Fucking Christ.”

His hand draws and scribbles without his permission because he’s not sure what else to do with this haze/this energy/this hate—

Oh God, Who Does He Hate More?

Motherfucking Jefferson: Well, yeah, but he is helping even though he knows he’s angry. But why didn’t he stop him, why did he trust him with this?

Himself: Yes/yes/always/everysecond/fuckinghell/goddamnit/fuck

 _Her_ : Why does she have to be so beautiful and smart and funny and **_fucking dead_**.

(It’S yOuR fAuLt)

(Rachel in the Dark Room Rachel in the Dark Room Rachel in the Dark Room)

( _I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to._ )

He pushes his chair away from his desk and stalks over to his medicine case and throws away every prescription he owns—And his fucking phone rings a-fucking-gain—And he shoves a chair underneath his door handle—

Who knows if Jefferson is on his way to kill him right now? Hell, he would kill Jefferson if he tried this shit on him.

But Jefferson is a seasoned professional, not like crazy fucking Nathan Prescott.

He’s trying to finish his sketches of the demons in his head, but he isn’t sure what has happened because he is bleeding a lot.

He looks down to see old wounds reopened. He must have been too rough with that chair. He forgot to put on his jacket. He has to look at his arms which are particularly messed up right now because he has to let his demons out _somehow_.

(HISPHONEISRINGINGAGAIN)

Against his better judgement, he picks up.

“What the fuck do you want?”

It’s not Jefferson on the other line.

“ _Nathan?_ ”

Oh, shit. Not Victoria, not _again_.

He can’t handle her right now. He can’t handle anyone right now.

“Shit, Victoria. Can we talk later or something?” He’s trying really hard to not yell obscenities at her like last time.

“ _Sorry, I’m just, like, super worried about you_.”

She hasn’t been by recently, mostly because he made her cry, and mostly because he has barely left his room in two weeks. He has to go to class, but he can’t really concentrate on class. He can’t concentrate on anything. He has to put all his energy into not being incredibly violent. It doesn’t matter what his grades are because his parents have money and power.

Nathan sighs and hangs up the phone without responding.

It rings again.

And he picks it up.

“ _Nathan._ ”

Jefferson. Goddammit.

“Fuck. What do you want?”

Jefferson’s whole game is run on guilt and dependence, and Nathan can see that, but he also knows that it was best not to think about it too much.

“ _I know you’re upset, but you can’t do this._ ”

“Do what?”

“ _Act like this. I’ve had multiple people from Blackwell tell me you’re behaving erratically in class._ ”

He tries to hold back his anger, but it bangs against his skull and forces words out.

“I can do whatever the fuck I want!”

“ _No. No you can’t. Unless you want to be locked up for the rest of your life._ ”

Nathan looks over at the chair wedged under the door.

“ _You have to start taking your medications again._ ”

“No.”

“ _Nathan_ ,” his voice is low, which means he is not joking. “ _I told you that I was going to help you, but how am I supposed to do that when you’re being_ ridiculous _?_ ”

Him? He is being ridiculous? Nathan believes he acting rationally.

“Drugs killed her.”

“ _Drugs also keep you from flying off the fucking handle like this._ ”

It is true that Nathan often would go off his medication because he was upset by something, and then, he would have his paranoid thoughts, and then, he would just _know_ that his medication was _killing him_ (or other people).

“But, I-I can’t—“

“ _You can. And you will._ ” His voice is so much more on edge than he’s ever heard in class. He almost sounds like he did That Night—

(RachelintheDarkRoomRachelintheDarkRoomRachelinthe—)

“ _You can pretend all you want, but you know that this is actually what you want to do. You’ve seen my work. You’ve seen me in action. You want this._ ”

Nathan, for once, doesn’t have anything angry to shout. Jefferson is right.

“ _Start your medication again. Start practicing again._ ”

“But what if I—“

“ _Play it safe._ ”

And he hangs up.

 

* * *

 

She has to find her.

It’s 80 dollars to print 500 posters, but who the fuck cares? She was saving all her money for California, but if Rachel never comes back, what’s the fucking point?

It’s been three months. No word. No texts, no calls, no letters, no nothing.

(She knows the statistics about missing girls. They are usually not found.)

But, she puts up the flyers anyway. It’s summer now. She can still get into Blackwell with her step-fucker’s keys. She puts up posters everywhere, on every square inch of that school. She puts them up at Two Whales. She puts them up _everywhere_.

Someone has to have seen her. Rachel was — is — popular. Someone has to know _something_.

Chloe puts 300 posters up, keeps 200 to herself in case the others get ripped down. Once she’s back in her truck, she’s hurting. Her chest hurts. Her stomach twists. She needs to not think for a while.

Turning her key in the ignition, something inside her engine makes a terrible scream.

And then her truck goes silent.

Just when Chloe thought things couldn’t get any worse, they do.

 

* * *

 

The mechanic says it’s going to be two grand to fix. Her car is essentially totaled, but she can’t afford a new car. She tells the mechanic to fix it anyway.

 

* * *

 

“You want three grand? You crazy?”

Chloe frowns hard, trying to keep her face steely.

“It’s for me and Rachel, _okay?_ We’re going to California. My car is messed up.”

She watches as Frank, for a split second, loses his cool demeanor, but he picks it right back up again.

“Isn’t she missing?”

“Well, I’m going to find her. She’s going to come back. And then, we’re going to leave.”

His lips are pressed in a thin line, and Chloe thinks for a second that he might reach out and hit her.

“ _Fine._ But you have two months to pay me back. And if you don’t, I’m going to fucking hunt you down, bitch.”

“Deal. I’ll have your money, Frank. Don’t get your panties all twisted up.”

He shoots her a glare, but says nothing. If Chloe looked close enough, she would even think that maybe his eyes were a little sad. A little bit like hers were.

She brushes it off as nothing.

 

* * *

 

Everyone in her life dead or gone? Check.

Wandering aimlessly with no goal in life? Check.

A three thousand dollar debt? Check.

Chloe doesn't know what to do besides get high, which she does. And drink, which she's going to do. She doesn't see much wrong with dipping a little into the grand she has left to buy a few shots.

She's done some…er, favors for the guy who owns the local dive bar, so she knows she can go there.

The bouncer doesn't card her. She does look a bit older with her leather jacket, a bit of eyeliner on, and the desperation in her eyes.

It's dark and smokey. She can't see a whole lot, but she knows where the bar is. Double whiskey soda. The bartender looks distracted. Probably because some asshole is buying a shit ton of rounds. So many that she even gets passed a shot.

She takes it and chases it with her own drink. Both drinks burn her throat, but oh God, she loves it, it's so freeing to swallow chemical pain, and forget, forget, forget.

Before she realizes it, she's being passed another shot.

What the hell? Who the fuck is rich enough that they’re going to be buying rounds after rounds of (not awful) whiskey?

She looks over to see a glistening 100 dollar bill.  _Damn, son._

Her eyes follow the bill to the arm, and the arm to the person, and low and behold, it’s Nathan Prescott.

_Cha-Ching._

He may be a douche bag, but he’s a filthy rich douche bag.

Chloe takes her shot and makes her way through the throng of people at the bar. She slides herself right next to Nathan.

"Hey."

Nathan, who is clearly very intoxicated, gives her a look. It’s not entirely clear what he’s thinking, but he seems caught between impressed and disgruntled.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Chloe Price. Haven’t seen you since you flunked out.”

She shrugs, sipping from her whiskey soda.

“Yeah, well, Blackwell has a stick up its ass. I’m over their bullshit.”

“Tell me about it.”

Chloe already feels disgusting. This guy is literally the most awful kid to ever exist, but she has to be buddy-buddy with him. He’s got hella cash, and she needs it more than he does right now.

She’s about to say something else, but he beats her to it.

“You look about done with that drink. Want another?”

She thinks it’s odd that he’s being so generous, but she’s not about to turn down free booze.

“Why the fuck not?”

The bartender is summoned by a wave of more cash — ( _Damn, he is not being fucking careful showing off his money. Is this kid on something? What does he have to prove?_ ) — and more alcohol is shoved Nathan’s way. He hands it to her very carefully.

From what Chloe remembers about Nathan Prescott, she knows he’s a loose cannon. He is angry. He is violent. He gets in a-hella-lot of trouble. But, now, he’s being personable and thoughtful about his actions, which is strange considering he’s practically throwing away his money.

“Why are you here?” Nathan asks, waking Chloe out of her thoughts.

“I don't know, everything sucks, and I want to drink myself to oblivion,” she deadpans. He laughs harder than she expects, and she grins and tosses back her shot.

_This is going to be easy._

“Same,” he beams.

“Really? That’s all?” She doesn’t believe him. “You seem to be celebrating.”

“What’s there to celebrate? This shithole town is fucking ridiculous. The only way to deal with it is to drink.”

“Amen to that.”

“I don’t mind giving someone a way to deal with shit, especially since I don’t know what the fuck else to do.”

This all seems weird, like Nathan’s making shit up, but Chloe nods and smiles because she knows guys like to think that everything they say is _sooo_ important.

Regardless, when he goes for his pocket, Chloe realizes that’s where he’s keeping his bills. She looks away, pretending like she doesn’t notice. No, she’s not trying to steal from him. Not her. Chloe’s a good girl.

He’s bought another drink for the both of them, and Chloe reaches for hers.

“Here’s to plowing Arcadia Bay into the fucking ground,” she laughs, raising her glass.

“Cheers.”

They clink their drinks, and she brings the glass to her lips, throwing it back.

Ah, nothing like copious amounts of alcohol to make Chloe feel like she’s on top of the fucking world.

Nathan and her meet eyes again, and Chloe can’t help but think that he’s actually not too bad looking. His hair is blonde and curly, eyes deep blue and striking. If she hadn’t been over her Boy Toy Phase, she might consider it.

Oh yeah, and if he wasn’t a massive fucking prick.

But, guys? Eugh. They were cute, but no fun, and they always had a massive chip on their shoulder. The patriarchy will do that to you, Chloe mused. So, Chloe had decided to stick to girls. Not like that had saved her from heartbreak or anything.

Because the booze is making her light-headed, she grins and says, “Your hair looks sexy pushed back.”

He doesn’t get the reference.

Instead, he looks shocked, eyes wide and mouth shut tight. He looked kind of like Frank when she mentioned Rachel.

“Damn, Price. Always thought you were a dyke.”

Chloe snorts, amused.

“I don’t discriminate.”

She can tell he’s not saying what he actually wants to say. She knows that look. It was the same one Rachel would give her when she’d ask who’s texting her.

_Damn. Rachel._

Chloe looks down at her empty glass, the light-headed feeling melting away into sadness.

As if he's sensed her change in demeanor, his hesitant expression fades, and he growls.

“Then why the fuck did you spend so much goddamn time with Rachel?”

Chloe head snaps to look at Nathan, and she realizes that her vision isn’t right. It’s a little blurry but not the same as when she’s just drunk. When she’s drunk, she feels light-headed and silly, but now she just feels disorientated.

“W-What—?”

“I said, _why the fuck_ did you spend so much _goddamn time_ with Rachel Amber?”

His voice sounds tinny and far away.

“I, uh, I don’t—“ _Play it cool, Price. You’re fine._ “I don’t know w-what your t-talking about.”

Chloe’s body feels disconnected from her mind. It feels heavy. It feels like it’s not hers. She realizes that her vision is slowly failing her, and she knows that This is Not Right.

He leans down so their faces are inches apart. He growls.

“I hope you _fucking_ _rot in hell, dyke.”_

She knows not to take this, knows this is not her fault, but when she goes to stand up, she feels her legs give out on her, and someone shouts—

“Oh, shit! Bitch is goin’ down!”

And the last thing she remembers is her head smacking against linoleum.

 

* * *

 

Three months should make it better or something, right?

No. Of course not.

( _She’s dead._ )

Haha.

But, now that’s he’s been back on medication for a while, he can ignore the voices, even if the pain is still fresh. Not like he had much of a choice. He has to _practice_. Can’t kill anyone anymore. Haha.

(But, what he refuses to acknowledge is that his medication does make it easier to ignore that he is taking away agency from living human beings—it’s hard not to feel entitled when the side that keeps badgering him with doubt is muted.)

It all seems so easy sometimes. The bar lets him in because what are they going to do? Call the cops? Funny shit.

It only takes a few drinks to get him to a place where he feels loose enough with his wallet to buy everyone drinks. One of them has to be a thirsty bitch that’ll come asking for more. He knocks another shot back. He has to admit that his head is swirling a little more than he intended, but who fucking cares? No one fucking cares.

Nathan Prescott owns this whole town, so no one fucking cares.

He’s about to order again, but he feels someone brush against him.

_Gotcha._

“Hey.”

What he is not expecting is to see the blue-haired drop out slut. The one that Rachel liked. A lot. He shoots her a look of disgust, but the alcohol makes the corner of his lips turn upwards. She returns with a similar expression.

Okay, so not the person he was expecting, but he could make it work. Actually, this is probably better. Malice is a better inspiration than love. He could be cold to her. He could use her and not care at all — in fact, she deserves what’s coming to her.

Especially since, apparently, she’s this loose bitch that throws herself around to get free alcohol.

When she sips at her drink (it’s a two dollar well, Nathan notes with distaste), she has an air of confidence about her that makes him believe she’s up to no good. He has the urge to reach out and smash her face against the bar.

He doesn’t.

She drinks from one hand and keeps running her other hand through her hair. He notices that her fingertips are blue from her hair dye. Not a cute look. Let the whole world know you’re a fake-ass cunt.

( _Hahahaha. Like you’re fucking not._ )

It’s too easy to slip her something, and she looks at him wild-eyed and fearful, and then she is passed out on the ground, navy beanie falling off and blue and pink and blonde hair spilling on the ground.

People gather around, but Nathan waves them away, crouching down next to her, insisting that his friend just had too many shots. She’ll be okay.

Nathan picks her up in his arms, and he is suddenly very aware that Chloe is _small_. His hands are huge in comparison, and they could easily crush her. Even Rachel, who was quite thin, wasn’t so frail, and he is forced to consider her humanity for a moment—

( _Does this bitch ever eat? Rachel didn’t eat that much and she wasn’t nearly this skinny. What is she fucking doing with her life anyway?_ )

But, the moment he does that, he feels a small pang of remorse.

He pushes it in the back of his brain, and instead, walks her to his truck. He’s lucky because his father owns the fucking pigs in this town, and he’s going to drive drunk if he fucking wants, especially if he wants to have a passed out slut in the passenger seat.

She’s easy to place in the car, but she groans a bit, moving to a barely conscious state. Nathan starts his car, turns on the radio, and peels out of the parking lot.

The music passes in one ear and out the other, but Nathan finds it slightly ironic that message seems to be the glorification of Millennial youth culture. He peers over at Chloe, who’s head is lulling forward. His mind battles.

( _Yeah, so fucking cool and edgy. Just being an average kid. You fucking_ ** _monster_** _—_ )

(Shutup. Alwaytaketheshot.)

( _Tell yourself that all you want, but you know_ what you did _._ )

(Fuck, you think I don’t fucking know—)

He has to swerve because he’s about to hit a parked car.

(Stop fucking thinking, you idiot.)

 

* * *

 

Blackwell dorms are surprisingly unsecured during the summer. He already knows the shifts of the security guards, and there’s no one on duty from 12:55 to 1:00. Because she’s so small, he can just pull her out of the car (she topples to the ground, and she groans in pain) and throw her over his shoulder. She seems lighter than a sack of potatoes.

He lets himself into the boy's dorms, trudges up the stairs, and goes to his room. It’s dark, and he needs to turn on his lights, but his hands are full. He doesn’t even care enough about this weight on his shoulder to put her anywhere but on the floor. Again, her small frame crashes to the carpet like a bird smashing into a closed window.

Lights on, camera prepped, subject ready.

She is curled up on the floor in a fetal position, her eyes just barely opened, small, fluttering breaths escaping for her open mouth. She looks helpless ( _as she should_ ), and it fills Nathan with false pride as he captures her form.

_Click, click, click._

He should have probably cleaned his room before doing this, but with her disheveled appearance and the stray objects on the floor, it gives the shots a more grunge feel. Not exactly the aesthetic he was aiming for, but it’ll do. He moves in closer, gets a shot of her face. It’s completely blank. The expression sends a shock of excitement down his spine. He likes her like this. She’s actually kinda cute when she’s not running her fucking mouth.

He turns her over to her back, and she whines, eyes following his movement. He snaps more pictures and grins.

Jefferson was right, he does love this. He loves this control, this ability to capture.

Because goddammit, who is this bitch anyway that was trying to steal Rachel Amber away from him (and succeeding to some extent)? Who does she think she is? He owns this town, not her. And this is how she is going to pay. She’s going to be his muse of anger and jealousy and hate and misplaced emotions.

But, this is not the same as with Rachel. No, no. Rachel was special. Rachel was a masterpiece. Ask Jefferson — he’ll tell you that she was the most interesting subject he’s ever seen. They are, of course, both biased because they both vied for her affections, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that This is Nothing. This bitch means nothing to Nathan. This is practice. This does not count.

“Don’t think you’re ever as good as Rachel, you fucking whore.”

He forcefully takes off her jacket and grabs her arm, dragging her to the bed, where she is positioned to be laying on her side, wrists crossed out in front of her. Her face looks different now. It looks slightly more lucid, definitely confused, definitely scared.

_Click, click, click._

These are good shots too. The “moment of desperation” Jefferson always raves about. She’s not moving, but she knows something is wrong.

He moves her to her back, and it seems like his touch makes her shudder this time. She moves her head lazily. It lulls to the side.

“Don’t fucking move.”

Her eyes shift to meet his this time, and if Nathan would have been paying closer attention, he would have seen the flicker of anger cross her face. But, he is too busy taking shots of her, and through the lens of his DSLR, he can’t pick up her subtleties and details. He’s too busy climbing onto his bed, getting closer to her, grinning like a madman.

He doesn’t realize she’s awake.

“Get the fuck away from me you creepy fucker!”

Chloe is still definitely slurring, but in no time flat, she's kicking wildly, trying to nail him in a desperate attempt to escape. He jerks back, trying to protect his camera from her onslaught, but also trying to make sure she stays put. This is, admittedly, not very possible. She scrambles, limbs flailing. They miss him, but she lands a kick to the lamp on his bedside table. The lamp crashes to the floor, taking the alarm clock down with it.

Nathan strings obscenities together like it’s his job. He manages to set his camera down before lunging at her, but she has already managed to get off the bed and is running toward the door. He doesn’t understand how she is able to move so fast when still under the influence of various substances, but she is very, very quick, too quick for Nathan’s reflexes. She’s out the door, and Nathan’s voice, loud and aggressive, rips at his throat.

Chloe manages to get out and down the stairs before Nathan catches up, and something in the back of her head tells her that he’s not going to follow her. Even so, she runs. She run run run run runs until she doesn’t know where she is anymore. She doesn’t look back until exhaustion catches up with her, and she just can’t run anymore.

He isn’t behind her.

Half of her wonders—

( _why isn’t he running after me, what’s happening, what’s going on_ )

but the other screeches—

( _holy fucking shit oh my god what the fuck_ )

and every part of her feels sick—hurts—

And then, she realizes she has no idea where she is. Not only that, but she is so fucked up that her vision is doing flips and turns, and her limbs feel heavy and limp. How is she supposed to get home? Where is her car? What time is it? Why can’t she fucking remember anything for the past few hours?

The whirling in her head becomes too much, and she leans over and vomits, and tears run down her cheeks, and fuck, fuck fuck fuck, why is this happening?

She stumbles for what seems like hours because she can’t fucking see straight or walk straight or have any concept of time or directions. All she knows is that her body _hurts_ , and she is so fucking disorientated, she can’t even figure out how to use her phone.

When she thinks she might just give up and lay down on the grass, she hears her name.

“Chloe?”

At first, the sound of a man’s voice shoots fear into her veins, and she whips around, losing her balance and stumbling in order to keep upright. She thinks it’s Nathan, but instead, it’s a familiar face.

“Chloe, what the hell are you doing here so late?”

It’s David Madsen, step-fucker.

That’s right. David patrols Blackwell at night. (She’s near campus? She thought she ran so far away that she was in the middle of nowhere, but it seems she’s just on the outskirts of the campus, near the building with the pool.) She’s not sure whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.

Chloe is somewhat relieved that she recognizes the man, but she can’t do anything but take a few shaky steps in his direction. Her gait is so jarring and unstable that it makes David’s stomach do flips. He closes the gap between them, grabbing her shoulders so she stops swaying.

“Have you been fucking drinking?”

“N-No…” Her words come out like she’s drowning in syrup. “No, I-I didn’t, I’m…uh…” Even for her, Chloe is so fucking out of it. She’s avoiding David’s eyes, and she manages to shrug off his grip on her. “Do-on’t touch me.”

David is about to lay into her about being so fucking irresponsible and juvenile, but he notices that she is not wearing her beanie or her jacket. And then, he sees that her arms are badly bruised, as if someone was handling her (dragging her) by them.

“Chloe.”

His tone is so loud and commanding that she instinctively looks up at him.

And her pupils are totally blown out.

“Dammit, Chloe, what were you doing?”

There is a split second of silence, like Chloe’s addled brain is trying to process the situation, but instead of responding, she breaks down in tears, heavy sobs heaving her chest. David grabs her because he sees her eyes lose focus, and the next second, she’s a limp heap in his arms, choking and crying.

David doesn’t know what happened, but all the anger he felt before is gone. Something’s wrong—that much is obvious. But, what did she do? Or, what did someone do to her?

What the fuck is going on at Blackwell?


	4. Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four: Castle — Victoria is sick of feeling used, but Jefferson is sitting on his throne, saying that she should probably keep her pretty mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rachel Amber always wins, huh?
> 
> Max Caulfield is a fucking joke.
> 
> Don't tell me Nathan Prescott did nothing wrong.
> 
> Be careful what you wish for, Victoria.

Victoria has not seen Nathan since school ended for the summer. She’s not seen most of the Vortex Club either, now that she thinks about it. These past few months have been especially lonely, save for a few lame parties here and there, and a part of her really wants to go back to school. Even if the other part of her hates school, she hates not being the center of everyone’s attention even more.

But, the most aggravating part of it all is that, when she steps foot into Blackwell, the walls are fucking lined with Rachel Amber’s face.

 _Tch_.

A scowl paints her expression, and she has the urge to rip every single one of them down. But, what would that actually do? Nothing.

Rachel Amber always wins, huh?

The day passes slowly, useless class after useless class. She feels the atmosphere of the school is different. There’s a certain heaviness around everyone’s movements. The pace feels sluggish compared to how it usually does. Maybe it’s because they can feel Rachel Amber’s eyes boring into the back of their heads. Maybe it’s because everyone is acutely aware that she is The Missing Girl. 

A violent thought runs through her brain.

( _Missing girls aren’t found alive._ )

Maybe that’s why everyone is moving so goddamn slow.

It’s the fourth period of the day—Photography Lab—and Victoria sits in the same seat she sat in last semester. There are a few other people in the room, but Victoria doesn’t recognize them. New kids. There’s a girl sitting in Rachel’s old seat. She looks like she’s about the burst into tears already. Victoria may have spent a few more moments wondering _why_ , but a familiar voice catches her attention.

“Hey, Vic.”

To her surprise and relief, Nathan is standing in the doorway, waiting for her to notice him.

Victoria lets out a sigh of relief, stands up from her seat, and rushes over to him. Before she realizes she’s doing it, she throws her arms around Nathan and feels a whole heck of a lot better.

“Oh my god, Nathan. You have no idea how good it is to see you.”

He grins, meeting her eyes when she pulls away.

“Oh, I have a pretty good idea." 

Nathan looks approximately one million times better than the last time Victoria saw him. She’s not sure why or what changed, but his whole demeanor is so different, so much more relaxed, so much more like the Nathan she knows. She could just cry out of happiness, but she doesn’t because that’s a little too much.

“How are you doing? I-I mean, how have you been doing?”

He offers a strange look, his lips contorted into a smirk, but a certain sadness is unmistakable in his eyes.

“Better. Thanks for looking out for me.”

Victoria’s smile is looking more like a frown now.

“Oh, I, uh, wasn’t sure if I was helping or hurting. So, I guess, um, you’re welcome.”

She chides herself for sounding so nervous, but she’s just so bad at talking in a sincere way, even when it’s someone she knows very well.

“Hey, don’t give me that look,” he smiles, trying to get her to smile as well. It’s amazing how much younger he looks when he’s not in the grips of utter despair. His honey-gold hair is held back with mousse (Victoria has to wonder if he’s started straightening his hair because it’s not as curly as it usually is). His eyes are the blue of the Pacific Ocean. In all honesty, he’s pretty fucking hot and, in a strange moment of clarity, Victoria has to wonder why she _isn’t_ into Nathan like that.

She pushes the thought to the back of her brain. Can’t get stuck focusing on stupid shit like that.

Victoria smiles.

“That’s more like it.”

 

* * *

 

It is a bit strange being in Jefferson’s class again this year. The content is slightly different and the assignments have changed, but it is generally similar. The only thing that is completely different is the people in the class. A lot of them are new, since half of the class had been the seniors, who had graduated at the end of June.

And of course, Rachel Amber is still not there. (Unless you count her flat, black and white eyes staring Blackwell down.)

Victoria thinks, maybe, she has a chance not to have an arch nemesis this year because, really, hating someone as much as Victoria hates Rachel takes _a lot_ of energy and brain power. 

“Has anyone read the chapter?” Mr. Jefferson asks as if it is of vital importance. His gaze falls into it’s natural place — the seat in the back of the room. “Maxine Caulfield, have you read for today?”

The girl clears her throat, a steady flush of embarrassment painting her pink. She fidgets before responding.

“I, uh, didn’t know we ha-had to read for the first day,” she stutters, brushing her fingers over her cheek. “And it’s Max…not Maxine.”

“That’s no excuse, _Max_ ,” he says her name so deliberately that it is almost uncomfortable. “I sent the entire class an e-mail with the syllabus.”

“S-Sorry, Mr. Jefferson.”

“I expect more from you, Max.”

Victoria makes a face. _Okay_ , who the fuck is this girl, and why does Jefferson already know her fucking name?

Max practically implodes right then and there, a look of terror crossing her face. To her credit, she doesn’t look like she is enjoying the attention. 

( _Yeah, yeah, yeah, because you love that attention,_ don’t you, Vic? _You want it all to yourself, don’t you_ —)

She has to take a moment to breathe because she is so close to fucking losing it.

She writes in her notebook: 

 _Okay. Actually calm down. What’s wrong with you._  
_You don’t know this bitch. She doesn’t know you._  
_Don’t go obsessing over_ Maxine _._  
_Okay._  
_Don’t do it.  
__You’re better than that._

She writes it, but she doesn’t believe it. 

She grits her teeth and tries very hard to calm down, but this class period is proving too much for her. What is clear, however, is that she has a new person to fixate on.

She’s this waif of a human being, collarbones jutting and t-shirt gaping, with short brown, mousy hair, and a perpetual expression of terror. Her eyes are always so fucking huge, and she’s got her fucking Polaroid camera out on her desk. Yeah, like you’re so cool, so _fucking hipster_.

Victoria is not fooled for one second by Max Caulfield’s bullshit, but Jefferson, unfortunately, falls for it, hook, line, and sinker.

(In the back of Victoria’s brain, she knows it’s because she has the same doe eyes Rachel had, and it makes her hate her even more than she thought possible.)

Isn’t that what Victoria had a problem with? This girl is the insecure, socially awkward part of Rachel Amber — the part they never saw. Maybe that's worse. Maybe seeing her be so fucking terrified all the time makes her more relatable than Rachel, more human.

And Victoria doesn’t want to feel anything for Max except for _hate_.

(She doesn’t want to admit that maybe she felt something for Rachel that wasn’t hate.)

She’s visibly distressed by the time the bell rings. She wants to take control back of her emotions, but more and more, she’s finding she can’t. Maybe this is how Nathan feels when he has his episodes — just unbridled anger.

So, it really pushes her over the edge when, as everyone is leaving, Max accidentally bumps into her.

“Oh, sorry,” Max squeaks out.

Victoria whips around, her hostility practically palpable. If this were a cartoon, steam would be pouring from her ears and nostrils.

“Watch where _the fuck_ you’re going, _Maxine_ Caulfield.” 

The words come out as an ugly snarl, and Max visibly recoils as if Victoria had physically hurt her. 

“I-It’s Max, never Maxine.”

“You think I fucking care? Get _the fuck_ out of my face.”

Jefferson clears his throat.

“Victoria. Is it really necessary to be so mean?”

She shoots him the nastiest glare she can manage, and Max takes off, using the lapse in conversation to make her escape. Victoria watches her scramble away, unable to get the feeling of anxiety that bubbles in her chest to go away.

Fuck Maxine. Fuck her.

 

* * *

 

Victoria can’t avoid her.

The school is small, and they’re in the same program, so they have basically every class together.

She can’t easily ignore her because she’s always fucking around with her Polaroid, and it’s so infuriating because she knows that Max thinks it’s cool, but it’s not _cool_ , it’s annoying.

Oh, and also, it’s hard to ignore her because Jefferson won’t lay the fuck off.

At first, Victoria just thought that maybe she was being oversensitive or something. Maybe she was just jealous that Jefferson took a liking to her. But, to be honest, the amount that Jefferson pesters her is out of control.

Victoria hears their conversation as she passes in the hall.

“Max, did you turn in your submission yet?”

“No, sorry, Mr. Jefferson, I’ve been really busy.”

This is literally the tenth time he’s asked her, and not only does she keep not turning in her photo, but Jefferson _keeps asking_. Damn, Victoria had been planning on turning in hers soon, but Jefferson hasn’t asked hers once. There are still a few weeks or so until the deadline for the “Everyday Heroes” contest, so it isn’t that big of a deal, but Jefferson obviously cares deeply whether or not she enters.

Yeah, because Max has “a gift." 

“I shit you not, he said, ‘Max has a _gift_ ’ in front of the whole fucking class,” she explains to Courtney as Taylor nods along. “It took all my self control not to projectile vomit.”

“Wow, what the fuck.”

“Yeah,” Taylor says, frowning slightly. “He’s, like, all about Max. It kind of weirds me out a little bit?”

Okay, so other people have noticed it too. 

“Oh my god, thank you. I’ve been thinking the same thing since, like, day one,” Victoria says.

“No, you’re totally fucking right!” Taylor exclaims, pointing at Victoria to illustrate her point. “I forgot about that. The first day, Jefferson knew her whole name, and like, they had never been in class together before, so I was like, what?”

Internally, Victoria feels a million times more relaxed. So, she isn’t just projecting or making things up. Jefferson is honestly really into Max Caulfield and not trying very hard to hide it.

“If Mark asks her to turn in her photo again, I think I’m going to literally die.”

“Damn, now I wish I was in Photo Lab with you guys,” Courtney laughs. “I feel like I need to see this first hand.”

“All I know is Max is a fucking joke. She pisses me the fuck off,” Victoria grunts, crossing her arms. 

“Amen sista.”

She has to consciously put in effort to not keep talking about Max.

Victoria begins to realize that she spends a lot of her time thinking about how much she hates her, and it’s becoming a repeat performance of the whole Rachel Amber fiasco. Except, this time, Max doesn’t retaliate like Rachel would, so Victoria kind of feels like an asshole.

But, _damn_ , she is just _so annoying_.

Especially when they have assignments due. To be fair, it isn’t Max’s fault that she gets high marks from Jefferson, but when it becomes a consistent thing that Max is scoring higher than Victoria, she gets a little pissed.

He’s passing back evaluation sheets one day, and when Victoria gets hers, it only says, ‘ _Good work. 40/50 pts._ ’ It’s not a _bad_ grade, but it isn’t the grade she thought she deserved. The prompt had been to take five pictures that tell a story and then to write a short description about it. Her pictures had been awesome: she photographed people standing in front of their houses, each one representing a different stage of life. Well, Victoria though it was cool, but Jefferson seemed ambivalent.

When Jefferson passes Max’s sheet back, he tells her, “Great work,” before he moves on. She can’t see her score, but she can see that Jefferson had written a paragraph-long critique on her paper. As Max scans it over, her beaming expression tells Victoria all she needs to know.

The bell rings, but Victoria doesn’t get up and leave right away. She sits and waits for everyone to leave. Then, when Kate is the only other person in the room, sitting at the back table, sorting worksheets and correcting tests for Mr. Jefferson, she makes her way up to his desk.

“Hello, Victoria.” He doesn’t sound too pleased.

“Mr. Jefferson. I was wondering if you could give me some feedback on the photos I submitted for that assignment. You just said they were good, but then you didn’t give me full points.” 

He sits down and opens the filing cabinet that holds each student’s portfolios for the year. Picking Victoria’s up and taking out the photos, he considers them for a moment and hands them to her so she can take a look as well.

“These are good, Victoria, but I think you can do better,” he says, much to her dismay.

“W-What do you—I mean, what can I do to improve?”

He cocks his head and thinks.

“I don’t see your intention in these photos. It looks like you just took these because you knew it would result in great shots.”

She looks at him, exasperated. It takes her a lot of effort not to say, ‘ _But isn’t that what photography is?_ ’ because she knows the answer to that already.

“Yes, Victoria, there is more to photography than a great shot.” It’s almost like Jefferson is reading her mind. Or maybe she’s really just that transparent. Or predictable.

Victoria doesn’t know what to say, but she is clearly distraught.

“I j-just, I want to know—what am I supposed to do about the "Everyday Heroes" contest? If you don’t like these, how am I supposed to win?”

“I never said they were _bad_. I just want to be able to feel something when I look at them. You know? I want to be able to feel what _you’re feeling_. The submission deadline for the Everyday Heroes contest isn’t for a few weeks. Just keep practicing. Find a style that speaks to you.”

Against her better judgment, she rebukes.

“T-Then what about Max’s pictures, huh? You said _those_ were great, but mine are just good?”  she asks angrily. “Hers are just some photos of some dumb animals.”

Jefferson, once again, looks as though he anticipated such a reaction.

“Max has a very obvious intention in her photography. She shoots what she finds interesting, and that comes across in her work. It is very true that the subject matter could be interpreted as…trite, but it’s that naiveté that makes her photos so captivating.”

Victoria doesn’t even try to stop herself from rolling her eyes. She’s not here to listen to Jefferson ride Max Caulfield’s dick.

“Well, thanks for the feedback, I guess.” She hands her photos back again, so he can deposit them back in his cabinet.

“No problem, that’s what I’m here for.”

“Yeah.” She shifts her tactic, going for a less…subtle approach. “I’m going to try to keep improving for you, Mr. Jefferson. Wouldn’t it be _awesome_ if we could go to San Francisco together? Just the…two of us?”

Jefferson’s lips press in a thin line, and for just a moment, his eyes flicker up to look at Kate. She is minding her own business.

“Only you can make that happen, Victoria. So, maybe you should go practice.”

Victoria sighs. She's able to take a fucking hint.

He stands up and slings his bag over his shoulder, beginning to leave. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to.” And without so much as another word, he's gone.

This leaves Victoria with her own thoughts, most of them dark and self-deprecating.

( _Jesus, Victoria, trying hard much? He obviously doesn’t want anything to do with you._ )

( _Haha, plus your photos are shit. Too bad you don’t have “a gift” like Maxine Caulfield._ )

( _Why do you even fucking try? You’re an untalented whore, Victoria Chase—_ )

“Victoria.”

She’s woken out of her thoughts by Kate’s quiet voice.

“Huh?" 

Kate has stopped grading papers. Her pen is set down neatly next to the ungraded stack. Her eyes look genuinely full of worry.

“Are you okay, Victoria?” she asks. “You look sad.”

“Why the fuck do you care?” Victoria snaps, crossing her arms and leaning against Jefferson’s desk defensively.

“I just—I don’t want to see Mr. Jefferson make you upset.”

This show of affection from Kate’s end baffles Victoria.

“W-What do you even _mean?_ ” she sputters. “It’s not _Jefferson’s_ fault that my photos are shitty.”

“But, they’re not, Victoria. You take great photos. Art is subjective.”

“Yeah, but _he’s_ the one who gets to decide who gets to go to San Francisco.”

“Is that really what you want?”

Kate’s eyes look at her, and they’re big and wide. Victoria feels a pain radiate from her chest.

“Of course that’s what I want. W-What are you talking about?" 

Her head tilts and she looks away at the ground, submissively.

“Mr. Jefferson. He’s, uh—not always very nice.”

Victoria scoffs, crossing her arms and trying to suppress the urge to laugh.

“Oh, _okay_. Not everyone’s fucking nice.”

Kate looks back up at her, a bit of panic flashing through her eyes.

“I don’t think you should be trying to become involved with him,” Kate says quickly. She looks so _scared_. Why? What happened?

“Ha. _Involved?_ What are you even talking about?”

Her eyes dart around like someone might be listening.

“N-Nothing. Sorry, I brought it up.”

Kate, within moments, has escaped back into herself, face buried in papers and red tick marks. Victoria stares at her for a second, but her inability to figure out _what the hell_ Kate is talking about makes her angry.

“Whatever, Jesus Freak.”

With nothing else to do, she leaves. But, for some reason, even as she’s walking down the hall, she can’t get Kate’s words and her frightened expression out of her head.

 

* * *

 

 

The next weekend, Kate gets trashed at the Vortex Club Party. Victoria thinks nothing of it except that she thinks it’s hilarious, but she does wonder why Nathan decided to leave without telling her. 

The next week, Kate’s dead.

Victoria pretends like it doesn’t bother her, but she cries a lot about it.

She’s pretty sure it’s her fault. And this time, it kind of is.

 

* * *

 

Even though there is a dark cloud over Blackwell, it’s not going to stop the End of the World Party.

And even though Victoria feels like shit, she’s still going to go. Mr. Jefferson is announcing the winner of the photo contest, after all, and she wouldn’t miss that shit even if Blackwell was literally burning to the ground.

She’s getting ready in her room when she hears a knock on the door.

“Come in!”

Victoria turns to see Nathan Prescott looking a bit awkward in the doorway of her dorm room.

“Hey, Vic.”

“Hey, Nate,” she smiles. “Come over to put on makeup with me?”

“Sadly, no.” To her surprise, he doesn’t even smile at her dumb joke. Immediately, she knows something’s up. He walks over and sits on her couch. “I just wanted to talk to you for a second.”

His tone makes her stop what she's doing and turn to look at him.

“Um, okay. Talk to me.”

His eyes glance around as if he suspects cameras to be in the walls.

“I just, uh, wanted you to know that I’m sorry for all the shit I put you through,” Nathan says, avoiding Victoria’s eyes. 

She finds this odd. Nathan is looking particularly sheepish, almost scared, and it’s not a look that Victoria is used to seeing on him. She walks over and sits down on the couch as well.

“I told you, it’s okay. You’re my friend.”

“I—yeah, I just wanted to say, you’re, uh—one of the best friends I’ve ever had,” he says. His voice is quiet. If Victoria didn’t know better, she would have thought he was holding back tears. But, there’s no way. “You m-mean a lot to me.”

“Nathan? What’s gotten into you? What’s wrong?” She tilts her head and places a hand on the sleeve of his jacket. 

“Uh, nothing. Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“I-I don’t—“

“You were the only person that was always there for me, even when I tried to push you away. So, I guess, that makes you pretty fucking great.”

She frowns, her hand dropping back to her lap. Why does it sound like he’s saying goodbye?

“You’re pretty fucking great, you asshole. What’s all this about?”

Instead of responding, Nathan turns and hugs her, and even though she is shocked, eventually she relaxes into his familiar arms. It lasts too long, and his grip on her is too hard, but when he lets go, Victoria can feel that he left something behind in their embrace.

“Well, I’ll—uh—see you at the party, I guess.” He stands up. His eyes are focused on the ground.

“Y-Yeah, I’ll see you…”

Victoria can’t begin to understand why this conversation just happened, but the knot in her throat and the pit in her stomach are clear indications that something is wrong. But, what is she going to do? Nathan isn’t saying anything that isn’t super cryptic, and she’s not about to press any more than she already has.

She watches him walk away, shutting the door behind him, and Victoria swears that he’s leaving like he’s just been given a death sentence.

 

* * *

 

_Where’s Nathan?_

She hasn’t seen him at all yet, and he very specifically said he’d be there. Nathan _never_ misses a Vortex Club party. Sometimes he’d show up just to leave, but he never just didn’t show up.

Dread sits in her stomach. His no-show, along with the last conversation they had, makes her feel nauseated, and she’s barely had anything to drink. She wants to think that everything is alright, that Nathan knows what he’s doing, but a part of her knows that there has to be something else going on, that it can’t all be sunshine and rainbows. 

She tries not to think too hard about it, especially not when she’s supposed to be having fun. Taking a sip of her punch, Victoria turns around to do a little socializing instead of wallowing in her own worry.

But, she ends up running into Mark Jefferson.

They slam into each other, neither of them having been paying attention to where they were walking, and Victoria’s drink flies from her hand and onto the floor.

 “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” she says, backing up with a hand over her mouth.

“No, it’s my fault. My mind is kind of on other things at the moment.”

“Uh, yeah, same.” She says this quietly so it can’t be heard over the thumping bass of the party. At a loss of what to say, she forces small talk. “Uh, when are you going to announce the winner of the ‘Everyday Heroes’ contest?” This time, she talks loud enough so he can hear.

“In a few minutes, actually. So, if you’ll excuse me.” 

Yep. Same old deal. Mr. Jefferson doesn’t give one fuck about Victoria Chase.

So, it is a little shocking when Mark actually announces that she’s won.

Her heart thumps in her chest to replace the silenced music. Adrenaline spikes her blood. As she climbs on stage to make a small speech, she feels like she’s climbing a mountain, feels like she’s on top of the world. Maybe her stuff is pretty good after all? Maybe she’s not just purely a heartless, untalented, attention-seeking whore? Amazing. 

But, she does still feel like a major asshole. In an attempt to save face, she mentions Kate in her speech because it feels like her presence at this party is wildly inappropriate, not to mention she’s being fucking _honored_. It’s pretty amazing considering she really shouldn’t be rewarded for her past behavior.

(The last time she went to a Vortex Club party, she took a video that caused a young girl to die.)

She knows this. She knows she is a bitch. When someone yells, “You suck, Victoria!” at the end of her speech, she can’t help but laugh because they’re not wrong.

She gets off stage, and they all cheer for her, all want to celebrate her victory, but she’s not in much of a partying mood. Nathan’s absence tugs at the back of her mind.

“Have you seen Nathan anywhere?” Victoria asks Courtney, who up until a few minutes prior, had been guarding the entrance to the VIP section.

“No. If he’s here, he hasn’t said hi or anything. To be honest, I haven’t heard from him for a few hours,” Courtney explains, shouting over the music. “I sent him the VIP list, and he never responded.”

Has nobody stopped to think why hasn’t shown up to his own party? Panic sets in. Ducking into the bathroom, she tries to call his phone. No one picks up.

What the fuck is going on?

Victoria searches the entire party, but Nathan really isn’t there. No one’s seen him. And no one _cares._ Her heart is pounding in her ears, and right now is _not_ a good time to have a panic attack, but oh God, what if something happened to him? She’s five seconds from leaving the party and scouring the whole town, but then she sees Jefferson awkwardly chilling by the table that has the _real drinks_. He might know something. Maybe?

What’s she to lose just by asking?

She approaches him, and instead of the usual _‘oh for fuck’s sake, Victoria, can you go the hell away’_ look that he usually gives her, he looks more like he did at the Chase Space that one time. Inviting. 

“Didn’t realize it was kosher to offer alcohol to underage kids on school premises,” he quips.

Victoria shrugs, trying to get a feel for which Jefferson she’s talking to – the flirty one or the practical advice-giving one. “Nathan’s dad keeps the cops away. Principal Wells doesn’t ask, so we don’t tell.”

“Genius approach.” She can’t exactly tell if he’s being serious or not. His usual sarcastic tone is dampened. He hands her a solo cup filled with punch. “I got this for you since I spilled your last drink.”

She laughs uncomfortably, taking the cup from him. 

“Can’t you get in trouble for offering students alcohol?”

“You just said the police weren’t going to come around.”

Um. Okay. Wow. Get it, Mr. Jefferson. She must be talking to the flirty one.

She’s about to ask about Nathan when his hand is carefully placed on her shoulder. He leans down and says in her ear:

“Want to go outside? It’s kind of hard to hear in here.”

Victoria all but jumps back, giving him an incredulous look. What’s gotten into him? Jefferson’s acting like he’s trying to take her home or something. But, Blackwell is not some trashy bar, and Victoria is not nearly drunk enough for something like _that_ to happen.

“Uh, I guess?”

He makes a B-line to the door that leads outside, and Victoria doesn’t know what else to do but follow. She catches Taylor’s eye as she leaves, and Taylor shoots her a look, the one that says, _What the fuck, Vic_. Victoria gives her a shrug back because she sure as hell doesn’t know what’s going on either.

It is certainly more quiet outside. The only sounds are some rouge, drunk students hooting and hollering and the bass of the party bleeding through the walls. Jefferson and Victoria stand off to the side of the door, leaning against bricks. It’s a highly secluded area, and in the back of her mind, Victoria knows it’s probably not a coincidence.

“It’s much nicer out here.”

“Yeah,” Victoria takes a sip of her drink and sighs. She knows she should talk about insignificant things like the weather, but the dread that grips at her forces words out of her mouth. “Have you seen Nathan at all? He hasn’t shown up as far as I can tell.”

If Victoria didn’t know any better, she would have described Jefferson as nervous. But, Jefferson never really seemed nervous, at least not in the way that someone like Max Caulfield did.

“I haven’t seen him,” he replies, watching her carefully as if he were watching for her response. “But, why are you focused on him? You should be celebrating. You won.”

“I did,” she says after another sip of punch.

“Now, we can go to San Francisco. Just the two of us.”

Hearing her words in his mouth sounds weird and forced.

“Yeah, that’s true. Something to look forward to,” she offers, smiling. But, she still doesn’t understand why Jefferson isn’t more worried about Nathan. She would have thought that Jefferson knew Nathan’s perfect attendance to Vortex Club events, but then again, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t know Nathan as well as Victoria always assumed he did.

Her thought process is cut off by a large yawn. She is also aware that feels kind of sluggish. 

“Oh, are you tired?” Jefferson asks. Again, his eyes are looking for something. Why is he looking at her like that?

“Uhh, I guess? A little bit?”

“If you wanted, we could get out of here.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Victoria’s face goes from confused to a heavy shade of rose. She also looks like she might vomit. She doesn’t know what to do except talk, so that’s what she does.

“Wow! Okay, um, wow. That’s—uh—I didn’t think that, uh…”

Jefferson looks like he might burst out laughing like this is one big fucking joke or something. He leans over and gestures to her barely touched drink.

“You could also drink that faster.”

Her eyes are wide, and her eyebrows are raised, and she just _doesn’t know how to respond_. Did Jefferson want her to get shitty? Did he put something in her drink? What does he want from her? What is he trying to prove? What the fuck is happening?

“What?”

In one swift motion, he grabs her drink with one hand, takes a handful of blonde hair in the other, and forces the red fluid down her throat.

She chokes, sputters, recoils, but his grip is so tight on her hair that she can’t move. In a split second, Jefferson’s whole demeanor has changed. He is overbearing, menacing, and Victoria is scared to do anything but drink because he looks to be okay with hurting her if the fingers pulling at her scalp are any indication.

Tears prick at her eyes, and she’s very aware that things have gone to shit. Especially since, by the time the drink has either been consumed or spilled down her front, she feels really, really awful. 

Not awful because her favorite teacher and role model is assaulting her, but actually _awful_ , like her whole body is rebelling against her.

She coughs, trying to stop herself from feeling like she’s drowning on land. She can’t even scream like she wants to because the _shock_ is overwhelming. Her skin is crawling, and she is afraid she may be dying.

He releases her and the empty cup leaps from his hand, and she can’t stay upright, and she’s trying to get away, but he grabs her arm, pulls her into him, and puts a hand over her mouth. She’s losing feeling in her hands and feet, and she’s crying, but even her blurry vision begins to fade out.

The last thing she remembers is hot breath on her ear.

“Careful what you wish for, Victoria.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Everything is heavy. It just feels so heavy. Her arms, her body, her legs, her head. She can’t find the energy to move. 

She’s sick of people talking. There’s just noise, and it grates on her nerves. It’s all nebulous, the words of a man flooding in and out of her consciousness.

 

 

… 

Hands move her. They place her very specifically, using words that sound as if they’re trying to coax her to the land of the living, but she can’t understand them. She tries to open her eyes, but she finds that her eyelids are very heavy. Her body is not in her control.

This frightens her. And her heart jolts in her chest.

All at once, her eyes open, she sucks a breath in, and she realizes everything is wrong.

 _Flash_.

“Oh, look at that shot. You’re so _holy,_ Victoria." 

It takes her a second to realize what is happening. But then she figures it out: she’s been placed to look like she’s praying.

She’s down on both knees, hands pressed together, wrists fastened with duck tape, staring up at the lens looking down at her.

“That was _wonderful_. All that fear came all at once, didn’t it?” 

Victoria still can’t quite piece together what’s happening. Her brain is so slow. It hurts to think. As the confusion creeps into her expression, more clicking and flashing capture her submissive form. Her chin begins to tilt down.

A hand forces it back up.

“C’mon, Victoria. Don’t move. You’ve been so good.”

It takes way too long for her brain to make the connection between the man in front of her and the person she knows.

“J-Jeffer…”

She can’t even form his whole name because her mouth has decided not to cooperate. 

“Oh, so you’re awake now?” he whispers, taking another photo when a look of helplessness flashes across her face. She doesn’t quite understand what’s happening, or _why_ , but she knows it’s not good. “Hmm, can’t have that, can we? Looks like you need a stronger dose.”

He disappears and comes back with a syringe full of clear fluid.

“Just a little longer, alright?”

She’s whimpering, she’s telling him to stop, but he does it anyway, and she falls into a dreamless slumber.

 

 

 

 

…

When Victoria wakes up again, Jefferson is not there.

This time, her head is not as clouded, and reality sits on her like a weight on her chest.

She has no concept of how long she’s been down in this room. She has no concept of how long she’s been knocked out. She has no idea when he’s going to come back, and she has no idea what he’s going to do.

Someone has turned the handle to the faucet in her eyes, and she’s laying on the ground, wrists and ankles bound, shaking as sobs wrack her body.

Why? 

Why why why why why—

( _This is payback – this is karma._ )

( _Welcome to hell, Vic. You brought yourself here all by yourself._ )

“No, no. Please. Why?”

( _Kate’s dead. You’re next. Haha._ )

( _Isn’t life weird like that?_ )

( _You’re getting what’s coming to you_.) 

Victoria’s sick of all these minutes passing. She’s sick of feeling used. Never in her life has she felt more like an accessory, an old blouse tossed in the back of the closet to be forgotten about. She feels like a literal object, and it’s the worst feeling in the world.

The dread she felt at the party has been compounded, and she feels like the air is made of water. She can barely breathe.

Strangely, one of the only other things she can think is, if she’s here, then where’s Nathan? She sucks in a breath and prays to the gods she doesn’t believe in that he is in a safer place than she is right now.

As if her murmurs were an actual spell, the door opens. 

Victoria curls in on herself, tries to make herself as tiny as possible. Maybe Jefferson will forget she exists if she’s small enough. 

No such luck.

“Oh, welcome back, Victoria. Did you have a nice nap?”

She wants to vomit because that pride he carries with him permeates the air, and it’s so thick that she might choke on it.

“Go _fuck yourself_ ,” she rebukes, but the small sniffs and hiccups that she can’t suppress make her sound a lot less threatening and a lot more broken.

“Such language,” he mutters, taking off his soaked poncho and placing it on the couch. In one fluid motion, he picks up his camera off of the coffee table, and he is in front of her, lens looking down at her with a disapproval.

_Click. Click._

She shudders.

“Hm, I don’t like you as much when you’re awake. You move too much.”

“Shut up.”

“And talk too much.”

_Click. Click. Click._

She shifts her tactic. Insulting him is getting her nowhere.

“Why are you _doing this?_ ” Her words sound small and strained, and if she hadn’t been so scared, she might care that her voice is portraying weakness. However, it does make her feel infinitely more ill that Jefferson seems to enjoy the experience more when she looks or sounds scared. She tries very hard not to look scared, but who is she kidding?

His hands manipulate her and, _fuck_ , how did she not see this earlier? How did she not figure it out? How did she ever want to be physical with this terrible, awful man? She feels her eyes burn, and she’s about to cry, but a part of her doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

She’s already choking on her pride, so there’s no use crying about it.

“Do you remember the first time you woke up? When I had you on your knees? And you looked up at me with those eyes of yours?” His hands grab at her, prop her upright so she's back in the submissive pose in front of him. “That’s why. I love that ‘moment of desperation.’ That moment of fear when you realize what’s happening. It’s beautiful. It’s pure.”

If Victoria had needed to vomit before, she most certainly feels nausea now.

“What the hell does that even _mean?_ ”

“But there is nothing pure about you, Victoria. All you do get angry. All you do is ruin other people’s lives. You’re worse than Rachel Amber.”

Worse than Rachel Amber? Those are words she’d never expected to hear. If the situation weren’t so dire, she would have probably laughed because Mark Jefferson is very transparent.

He very clearly is not happy that she’s the one bound and sedated. He very clearly wanted someone else to win the Everyday Hero’s contest.

“You’re just pissed that you couldn’t get Max Caulfield down here.”

He reaches out and grabs her chin fiercely, all the muscles and bones in her face crying under the pressure of his grip.

“You should probably keep your pretty mouth _shut_ ,” he hisses, pulling her face closer to his. “You think you’re so fucking smart, huh?”

She resists the urge to respond. Instead, she grits her teeth and clenches her fists.

“You know, I’m not dumb either, Victoria. In fact, I know quite a bit more than you think.” He lets go of her face, lets her body fall to her side. “I know you’re jealous of Rachel Amber. I see the look you get when someone brings up her name, that anger that sets in. You wanted to be in her place.”

He pauses, a pompous smirk bleeding onto features.

“Well? How does it feel? Is this how you imagined it? Is this really what you want?”

Victoria’s eyes are so wide, she wonders if they might roll out of her head and onto the floor. She feels her stomach twist in pain and tears prick at her eyes. She remembers, now, Kate’s words.

_Is that really what you want?_

Kate knew. Kate _fucking knew_. Or maybe she didn’t know, but she knew something was wrong. Is that what happened to her? Did Jefferson drug her, tie her up, drive her to her death? 

She doesn’t even realize she’s crying until Jefferson barks at her for getting tears and mascara on his backdrop. Her eyes flitter up to meet his, and she feels so much shame. She didn’t help Kate. Kate died, and Victoria fucking pushed her up to that roof, and oh God, Kate was just trying to _fucking help her_.

“You need to stop crying. It’s ruining my shot.”

She refuses to stop crying, not like she could anyway, but if this is the way she can show rebellion, she’s going to fucking do it. If she has to ruin his shots by ugly crying, well, by golly, that’s what she’s going to do.

_Hey, don’t give me that look._

Victoria remembers why she’s down there in the first place, and that dread that she was swimming in before practically drowns her. She doesn’t even want to ask because she has an idea about what the answer might be.

“Where’s Nathan?”

Jefferson doesn’t look particularly pleased, but when he places his camera on the table behind him, his expression isn’t exactly what you’d consider remorse, either.

“You’re not going to like the answer.”

“Y-You…you didn’t—“

“He’s no longer with us.”

No.

_No._

Not Nathan. It couldn’t be. It—it just couldn’t! Nathan—Nathan couldn’t be dead. He—he couldn’t. He—he didn’t deserve that. Maybe he wasn’t always the nicest, but he didn’t deserve this.

Her face contorts, teeth clenching, eyes squeezed shut, a mixture of anger, fury, and grief flowing out of her eyes and out her throat.

“ _No!_ You _fucking monster!_ ” she screams. “Y-You f-fucking monster. Na-Nathan was suffering, and y-you just fucking _kill him_? What _the fuck_ is wrong with you, you fucking psychopath!”

“There goes that _mouth_ of yours again, Victoria. You’re always so goddamn _mean_.” He pauses to roll his eyes. “You know who else is a monster? Your precious _Nathan_. Not only was he assisting with my work, but he had his own ‘ _projects_.’ Don’t you ever wonder what happened to Rachel?”

Of course, she does. She wonders all the time. How can you not when her fucking face is on every wall in Arcadia Bay?

“Or maybe you don’t since you were always so petty.”

Through tears and clenched teeth, she whispers, “What happened to Rachel?”

“Nathan killed her.”

And in that moment, everything makes sense. Nathan killed Rachel. That’s why he was _such a fucking wreck_ right after she disappeared. That’s why he lashed out.

_How do I know you didn’t fucking kill her?_

Oh, man. Oh, Nathan.

How do you process that your best friend is dead—that your best friend is a murderer—that your best friend was probably always in pain.

You don’t.

“T-That’s not—“

“So don’t tell me Nathan Prescott did nothing wrong.”

“But, you _used him_ —“

“I prefer the word…manipulate. Like a photo.”

“Oh- _kay_ , whatever floats your fucking boat. But, you can’t kill someone because they killed someone!”

“Isn’t that the basis of the death penalty? You should know this, Victoria. Don’t you pay attention in civics?”

“Yeah, but that’s _the government_. You are just a sick fuck—" 

“ _Nathan_ tried to emulate my work, but he was too reckless. He gave her an overdose. It’s such a shame because she was one of the most interesting subjects I’ve ever worked with.” When he pauses, this time, he looks wistful as if Victoria could see the memories replaying in his mind. “Poor Rachel.”

Another part of the story falls in place: Jefferson loved Rachel. The weird tension between them, the absolute disregard for Victoria, the obsession with Max, the crazy decision to _kill Nathan_. Everything is about Rachel. 

Victoria uses this lapse in conversation to continue.

“ _You_ are just a sick fuck who drugs women and fucks girls. You don’t have the right to take away someone’s life.”

He looks tired, like he’s done listening.

“ _You_ aren’t a very compliant subject.” A small smile tugs on Jefferson’s lips. “Maybe we should fix that.” And he turns and walks over to the cart, the one where the needles are. He has his white latex gloves on, and he prepares a needle with way way way too much medication in it.

The reality of the situation takes hold, and Victoria is very acutely aware that she is going to die.

“W-Wait, M-Mr. Jefferson. You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh no, I do.”

The waterworks turn on again. 

“N-No, p-please—please, I’m sorry!”

It’s a little late to apologize, and she knows this, but she tries anyway. Anything to stall. Anything to put off the inevitable.

“C-Can you just take one more picture? Please?”

Jefferson looks at her, the syringe still in his hand, and takes a long minute to contemplate her preposition. 

“Fine. You got me.”

When he comes over, she’s still laying on her side, tears of mascara leaving a trail over the bridge of her nose and onto the white fabric below her. She knows that she can’t possibly look good, but she’s just so glad that she can have a few more moments to live.

 _Click_.

The flash lights up her eyes, which are filled with equal parts sorrow and contempt.

“I can’t say no to that face,” he says, the sarcasm laid on thick.

She closes her eyes, knowing that her last moments are coming to an end. She regrets how she acted towards everyone, how she acted towards Kate, Rachel, Max, Nathan—everyone, everyone, everyone deserved better.

Maybe she could have stopped Kate if she hadn’t been so awful to her. 

Maybe she could have thought about her feelings for Rachel before immediately turning to hatred because it was easier.

Maybe she could have been friends with Max. Maybe she might even have liked her. 

Maybe she could have saved Nathan. Somehow.

Jefferson is back at his cart preparing her dose when Victoria hears something. It’s a very high pitched squeak, the sound of metal on metal. It’s so quiet that he does not hear, but she knows something is happening. 

She panics.

“Mr. Jefferson!”

His head snaps to her, and he looks angry.

“What now? You keep distracting me.”

“Y-Yeah. It’s, uh, funny how that is. You know, that I would be _distracting_ you. As if, hah, I didn’t want to die or something.”

His brows furrow at the sudden shift in her behavior.

“What are you even talking about?”

“Well, I—“

“ _Jefferson!_ ”

_She did it._

Jefferson whips around, and there’s David Madsen, and Victoria never thought she’d be so happy to see that creep, but _goddammit_ , she’s so fucking happy to see David Madsen.

He has a gun, and Jefferson looks like he’s about to tear his hair out.

He growls and runs at David.

And Victoria can’t bear to watch.

She shuts her eyes and listens to men’s voices echo against the walls, she listens to sounds of a struggle, she listens to a gunshot and then a body toppling to the ground.

She’s crying, and she can’t open her eyes until she feels a different set of hands on her.

“Oh man, Victoria. Are you okay? Did that fucker hurt you?” 

David must have won. 

She opens her eyes to see his face, a fresh gash and a look of alarm making him seem that much older. Her eyes dart over to the body on the ground – of Jefferson – dead. She feels sick.

But she is alive.

“I-I don’t—“

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything,” he tries to console her while cutting off her duct tape restraints. “What even is this place? Some kind of photo torture chamber?” His gaze falls on the disturbing artwork on the walls.

“S-Something like that.”

When she’s free, Victoria can’t do much but let sobs overtake her. She’s not sure how she’s not dead, how David was able to save her. She doesn’t understand how Nathan could be dead, how Jefferson could be dead, how any of this could have happened.

David looks awkward, like he’s not sure what to do with this crying girl.

“Uh, I guess it’s a good thing I got a tip. I knew Jefferson was up to no good, but I had no idea how much “no good” he was up to.”

A tip? That’s weird. 

“W-What do you mean? Who tipped you off?”

David looks uncomfortable again.

“I’m not supposed to say because that’s how anonymous tips work, but Maxine told me.”

Max? Max Caulfield saved her life?

“She was real upset. She told me about Jefferson, and kept telling me you’d be here, like I couldn’t get a damn word in because she was telling me you’d be here.”

“But, how did she know? She didn’t even come to the party. There’s no way—“

“I don’t know. She was real upset though. Crying and everything. You’d’ve thought she was down here insteada you.”

Then it dawns on her.

Max _was_ in the Dark Room.

That’s the only way she could have known what was happening. It was the only way she could have known _Jefferson_ was behind the whole thing. 

A sick feeling washes over her skin, and she recognizes this feeling as empathy. She feels bad for Max. If her experience was anything like Victoria’s, she’s definitely not okay. She doesn’t know when Max could have been in the Dark Room or how she got out alive or how the whole thing was possible, but she _knows_ she was there.

As David calls for an ambulance, Victoria walks up the stairs and into the barn. She can see through the open barn door that the rain is pounding down in sheets.

She can’t help but wonder where Max Caulfield is now.


	5. Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5: Drive — All they do is drive. After all, California might feel more at home now that Max and Chloe have nowhere else to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maxine Caulfield is a murderer.
> 
> Sacrifice Arcadia Bay. Sacrifice Chloe Price.
> 
> Love sounds like Chloe Price being stuck on a Dead Girl.
> 
> Rachel Amber is STILL HERE.

Their eyes meet. Chloe’s car cries ‘ _ding, ding, ding,’_ but they are locked in a separate world made for just the two of them.

A decision has already been made. They have to run. This is not an option. They’ve let everyone die, so the least they could do is never come back.

It takes Chloe a moment to realize that she had left the door open and that’s why her car is yelling at her. She has to rip her gaze from Max so they can leave. Neither of them really want to leave. But, they have to.

Chloe peels out. 

Max cringes when her tires screech.

Rain pounds on the window, and Max has sunk into the seat. She looks very sad, but Chloe can’t help but notice the light that bounces off the exit signs and onto her lips. It is hard not to want to memorize the curves of her face, the swoop of her nose and the contour of her cheeks.

It doesn’t even register to Chloe that she is not watching the road until Max barks her name, and she has to swerve to not drive off the side of the highway.

Max is very cute, and very distracting.

But, she looks so goddamn sad. And even if Chloe can only steal glances at Max in order to keep them from dying in a car accident, she can still tell that she is not okay. The very idea that This is Not Over is very difficult for Chloe to grasp, and it makes her anxious.

Well, not as anxious as, y’know, watching her hometown get destroyed made her, but gotta pick your battles, am I right?

She decides to break the silence.

“Hey, Max. Watcha thinkin’ about?” 

Max is actively trying not to think, but trying not to think actually makes her think harder. 

( _Maxine Caulfield is a murderer._ )

The words pass through her brain, but her body experiences no emotional reaction to them. It’s true. It’s a fact.

Maxine Caulfield is a murderer.

She looks out the window at the rain pouring down, and she feels nothing. Her head aches and her eyes sting and her chest burns, but she feels nothing. 

Her friends are probably all dead. Won’t look. Won’t find out. Can’t know.

Chloe’s parents are probably dead. Max saved Joyce, but reversed it. She’s probably just deep fried in gasoline—

The mental image finally gets to Max, and she jerks in her seat, a hand flying to shield her eyes. As if it would help. 

“Whoa, Max. You okay?”

(No. No. No no no no no—)

“M-My head hurts. Really bad.”

“Shit, h-how bad?” Chloe is trying to sound calm, but failing miserably. To be fair, she is trying. “Do we need to get you to the hospital?”

“I, uh, don’t think I need the hospital, I just…” Her hand drifts down from her eyes, as if some of her resolve is stuck to her palm. “I don’t know. It could be from the rewind, I just…”

“You just, what?” Chloe asks, hands gripping the steering wheel a bit tighter. “You can’t end all of your sentences with ‘I just,’ and then trail off and look out the window wistfully.”

Max knows this is just Chloe trying to make light of a fucking horrible situation, but the sarcasm is _not_ appreciated.

When Max doesn’t respond, Chloe tries again.

“Did you…rewind, or something?”

“No. Not recently, at least.”

Chloe is silent. Like she doesn’t believe her. Max peaks over, and eyebrows are creased under blue bangs, mouth pressed into a firm line.

“Chloe…”

“It’s not like I think you’re lying, Max.” 

“But…?”

“I’m just worried, okay? You could have really fucked up your head with all this ‘ripping a hole in the space-time-continuum crap,’ and, like, I don’t want you to _bleed out_ or some shit.”

“I’m not going to bleed out, Chloe.”

“And you know that because...?”

“Okay, I don’t _know_ , but I’m _fine_.”

( _Haha. That’s funny. Max is_ fine.)

Chloe’s expression indicates that her internal dialogue is on the same page as Max’s.

But, for once in her life, Chloe doesn’t say anything.

Max leans back in her seat and closes her eyes, and the only thing she can actually feel is pure exhaustion. Max is _exhausted_ , and her head hurts, and her body is numb, and she is just so fucking tired that she wants to sleep for a thousand years.

One thousand years.

She could do it, you know. Sleep for one thousand years. She could just rewind forever. Just keep doing it over and over and over, so she can keep sleeping. Until her body falls apart at the seams. Until her skin breaks open and her blood spills on the floor. Until reality has no meaning and every fucking city on the fucking planet is obliterated.

( _You are a murderer._ )

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

Like she had an option. There was no other option. Chloe is the answer. It’s not a multiple-choice test.

She had to choose her. She is the only thing Max truly cares about. She “cares” about Arcadia Bay, but she is willing to destroy time and space for Chloe.

Chloe is the priority and always will be.

But, her conscience doesn’t seem to agree. It presses on the back of her brain, makes her eyes burn.

( _Maxine Caulfield is a murderer._ )

Chloe’s fingers drum on the steering wheel. She looks about as happy as Max does. Max fears that silence is going to drown them. They pass town after town, road signs becoming an ever present green blur on the side of the road. Sweat runs down Max’s back. She shivers. 

Blue painted fingers turn on the radio. An indie angel cooes over a strumming guitar. Not Chloe’s usual style, but it doesn’t look like she’s paying attention anyway. Her mind is on other things.

Max has to wonder how long this will last.

How long will they drive for? It feels like their mere existence is this truck flying down the highway. There is nothing else to this reality than these seats, this song, these girls, this fucking awkward tension. They do not exist outside of this vehicle. All they do is drive forever and ever and ever and ever—

“I left my meds in Arcadia.” 

Max is shaken out of her rapidly devolving thought process. It takes her a second to realize the meaning of what Chloe just said.

Meds? What meds? Her weed? What is she talking about?

“Are you going to be okay?” 

Chloe’s face twists into an awkward smirk.

“You know me. I can survive anything,” she pauses, stealing a glance at Max. “Plus, I don’t really need that shit anyway.”

That joke hits a little too close to home.

“Can you?” Max asks, incredulously. She is a bit angry.

“Well, I’m here right now, aren’t I?”

She can’t stop acid from pouring out her mouth.

“You wouldn’t be if I didn’t save your sorry ass.”

“Me- _ow_. Someone’s a bit testy." 

“I’m—“ Max shakes her head. Her mind is jumbled. It vaguely feels like they had this conversion before. “I’m tired and hungry.”

“More like hangry, amirite?”

Max is actually starving. She can’t remember the last time she actually sat down for a meal. She has been living off of granola bars and coffee for the past few days (not including the various breakfasts that Joyce had so lovingly provided, but she has no idea which timelines those meals occurred in), so when Chloe asks if she wants to stop for food, she practically begins to salivate right there.

“Yes, please,” she mumbles out, immediately looking for road signs that would indicate restaurants near by. After a few minutes, a small town pops up, which looks like it would be promising, so they take the exit and find themselves at a small rest stop with some fast food.

If anything, the girls are just excited to get out of the fucking car. It has been hours since they stretched their legs (or gone to the bathroom), so a break is much appreciated. Chloe is out first, of course, sprinting to go find a bathroom like her bladder is actually set to burst. Max is slower, but this is not surprising considering the weight of all the timelines she’s existed in crushes her against them. Maybe that’s why when she opens the car door and her feet connect with the ground, she stumbles forward, legs failing. She only has a few feet to go, though, because there is a car next to the truck to break her fall.

This is nothing she hadn’t expected. She let everything fall to shit and tried to fix it over and over…and those actions do indeed have consequences. Max feels physically weaker. She has this crushing anxiety that sits like a boulder on her chest. She can barely keep her eyes open most times. Her head always feels like it is five seconds from cracking open—

“Hey, Max, are you coming or what?”

Chloe’s voice makes Max snap back into reality, realizing that she is still leaning onto the neighboring car, palms flat against the windows. How long has she been standing there?

“Y-Yeah, sorry.”

“No sorry’s!”

“Yeah,” Max grumbles, following Chloe. She rubs her eyes, a bit shaken from losing some time. ‘ _Keep it together, Max.’_

Two cheeseburgers. Two medium fries. One Coke. $7.25. 

Since when did crappy fast food taste so good? Max is finding it difficult to slow down and taste her food. Chloe certainly is not trying to dampen her pace as she has wolfed down her burger and fries in record time, starting on her coke. She stares out the window as if there is something out there to be looking at.

“Damn, Chloe, when was the last time you ate?”

The blue haired girl looks at Max with a smirk.

“Says the chick that’s shoving half an order of fries in her mouth.”

“Well, considering I’m not entirely sure when I ate in any specific timeline, you could catch me a break.”

“No can do, Caulfield. I’m here to annoy you forever.” Chloe’s little smile is rather cute. Max likes when Chloe smiles, even if it is at her expense. Sipping aggressively on her coke, Chloe’s other hand inches over to Max’s, fingers tapping lightly on the table. Chloe’s hands are greasy from the fries, but Max doesn’t mind. She likes that Chloe’s hand is big enough to cover all of hers. It is somehow comforting.

Max looks from her hand to Chloe’s face, and she is about to say something, but Chloe is done with her drink and is already leaping up. 

“Bathroom.”

Blinking, Max feels like she has just missed something. Has she lost time again?

“But, you just went.”

Chloe doesn’t even pause.

“Not everyone has a bladder of steel, Maxine.”

_Yes, I insist on calling you Maxine. Forever._

The muscles in her face tighten.

“Max, never Maxine.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chloe grumbles, waving her off. 

Being alone is the last thing Max wants, but she doesn’t feel like Chloe wanted to her follow. She isn’t sure what is worse, being alone with her own mind or being ostracized by the only person (left) who cares about her. Her small hands run through her hair nervously, trying her best to not think, not think, not think.

She squeezes her eyes shut, her head hurting for the millionth time that day. The only other notable sensation in her body is the the itching of her palm, but she has learned to ignore that one pretty well.

(She hopes.)

It doesn’t take long for Chloe to come back. But, the air about her is different. She looks lighter, and there is a spring in her step.

“How’s the food, Super Max?”

“Same as it was two minutes ago.”

“Well, you wanna hit the road again? We can probably make it to California by tonight if we floor it.” 

“I’m not rewinding if you get us arrested, Che.”

She leans down to get Max’s eye line, winking mischievously.

“We’ll just blow ‘em.”

“Ew, gross, Chloe!”

“Yeah, we all know you don’t swing that way.”

Max’s jaw locks. She stands up with her trash and marches over to throw it away. Then, she turns to Chloe, thankful that it is later in the day and the restaurant is scarcely occupied. 

“You don’t know that.”

The way Chloe’s eyes light up, Max knows she has just made a grave mistake.

“Ooh, Mad Max. I had no idea. You wanna call up Warren and get it on?” 

That is one button push too many. Max has no idea if Warren is even alive, let alone dtf. This is not the kind of shit she wants to think about. Not now. Now, she needs a distraction, not a reminder that all she does is fuck shit up.

“Chloe, stop it.”

They walk through the door and into the parking lot, but Chloe can’t take a hint.

“I guess I shouldn’t have told Warren that he had no chance with you.”

“Okay, but actually can you not—“

“Maybe you should see if that drive-in is still playing that fucking Ape movie.”

Max stops walking.

“ _Chloe_.”

Her tone is so _angry_ that Chloe can only stop and turn to look at her.

“What?”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Max hisses through clenched teeth. She feels her eyes burn with tears, but she pretends that her feelings don’t exist. “You c-can’t just… _say shit_ like that. Like it’s nothing.”

Warren is probably dead.

“Everyone is _dead_ —“

“You don’t know that.”

“No, Chloe! How could anyone had survived that? You saw it. You saw it destroy fucking _everything_. Everything is _gone!_ ”

“That’s—“

“Don’t you _understand?_ I let everyone _die!_ It’s all my fucking fault!”

Chloe is intensely aware that they are having a screaming match in the parking lot. People are looking at them. She’s embarrassed at Max’s outburst and is too slow to respond. Max is already pushing past her, getting in the passenger side of the truck.

“Dude, Max, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—“

She slams the door.

Chloe rolls her eyes. Yes, she had been insensitive, but Dear Lord can she not? This is not the time for tantrums.

(She knows this is not about her. She knows this is about the destruction of lives that hangs precariously above their heads like a black hole that’s just waiting to capture and end them.)

She gets in the car, and Max is crying, and Chloe feels extremely guilty, but she also doesn’t know how to handle such displays of emotion.

“I don’t know what to _do for you_ , Max. How can I help?”

That is a question that Max does not want to hear nor answer. She does not know how Chloe can help. She has not been considering what kind of help she needs because it is much more simple to just not think.

How do you process that you have killed and unkilled so many people, that you have such power—

(That you were drugged and kidnapped and almost killed and had some creepy fucker take photos of your unmoving body)

—that you let your best friend die again and again and again and AGAIN—

You don’t.

It’s so much easier to not think.

Until it bubbles over and shoves words out of your mouth that you don’t even really mean.

“I d-don’t know,” she chokes over her own words, wiping away snot and tears. “You don’t have to do anything." 

“But, I _want to_ , Max. That’s how this—us—works, right?”

Max wishes she had a word to describe the twinge that grips her stomach when Chloe refers to _them_ together. It’s a good feeling, but it’s also not a good feeling. She knows she’s restless and scared and not in the best place, but she also is very contented with the idea of being with Chloe. It all sits on her, and it feels heavy.

“I guess,” she mumbles, finally putting up the dams in her eyes. She’s picking at her nail beds. “I just don’t know, though.”

“You can’t just…shut people out, y’know? I’m… _trying._ I’m not saying I know what you’re going through, but I’m also fucked up, and I’ve never been great at handling things like this…”

She gets the point. She is shutting Chloe out. Sure, Chloe should be able to infer what could possibly be placed in the triggering category, but it’s also kind of shitty for Max to assume she knows what’s going on in her head.

She takes a deep breath and clears the last of the tears from her eyes.

“Let’s just get going, okay?" 

Chloe frowns.

“Whatever you say, Mad Max.”

 

* * *

 

Has it been hours? Days? Years? Who knows?

Time doesn’t have much of a meaning anymore.

All the roads and signs have blurred together. They’ve become one with the seats they sit in. There’s too much silence. Too much time to think. Too many unsaid feelings. It’s far more excruciating than either of them could have imagined.

Chloe wanted a road trip, but not like this.

Max wanted to get away from responsibilities, but not like this. 

This is a special kind of torture reserved for those who know too much. It is so painful to know the truth. 

(Jefferson is a nightmare. Nathan is dead. Victoria may or may not be dead. Kate is probably still dead. Rachel is very, very dead. Everyone is fucking _dead_.)

( _And it’s your fault_.)

Max Caulfield is the protagonist or the antagonist, depending on who you ask.

Max would like to believe she did everything she did to save people. 

( _Who did you actually save, Max?_ )

But, ask the voices inside her head, and they will have a very different opinion. They beg her to open up her mouth.

“I’m pretty sure all this is my fault,” Max says. The words come out stiff and mechanically. Chloe wants her to open up, but it is much harder than she expected.

“It’s not your fault,” Chloe counters. Her eyes don’t move from the road.

“I…killed people.”

“ _You_ did not kill anyone, Max. The storm was inevitable—“

“Was it though?” She raises her voice. “Pretty sure all this _shit_ is my fault.”

“ _No._ No. You can’t blame yourself for this. You’re just gonna drive yourself crazy. Plus, you can’t save everyone, Super Max.”

This is so hard. Max grits her teeth as if she is fighting back physical pain.

“I shouldn’t have… _fucked_ with time in the first place.”

“Hey, if you hadn’t, I’d be dead. So, it’s kind of a…not totally shitty thing.”

This is true. Chloe would be dead. But, can you trade one life for another?

( _I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Jefferson?_ )

Even if it is her inner mantra saying his name, Max feels her blood run cold. The very idea, the very concept of Mark Jefferson is chilling. There’s no way she’s like Jefferson.

Right? 

“Sacrifice _sucks_ , Max. There’s nothing warm and fuzzy about it. But, either way, people would have died. There’s nothing you could have done.”

Sacrifice.

Sacrifice Arcadia Bay. Sacrifice Chloe Price. Sacrifice Kate Marsh. Sacrifice Victoria Chase. Sacrifice Nathan Prescott. Sacrifice Rachel Amber. Sacrifice Max Caulfield’s sanity. Sacrifice this. Sacrifice that.

The word had lost it’s meaning. The word sounds weird in her brain. Is it even a word?

Like Max hadn’t heard a word Chloe said, she murmurs, “I’m a murderer.”

“Okay. No. You are not a murderer. Why the fuck would you even say that?”

Her reaction catches Max off guard. She’s really arguing? There’s nothing to even argue about. Maxine Caulfield is a murderer. This is a fact. An undeniable truth.

Since Max had begun to disappear back into herself, Chloe clears her throat.

“C’mon, Max. We should take a break.”

She doesn’t respond, so Chloe tries again.

“Look,” she says, pointing at a blue sign with a yellow flower and the words ‘Welcome to California’ printed on it. “We made it, and it’s only 3 am!" 

She can’t tell if Chloe is being sarcastic or if she’s just trying too hard.

Chloe looks over at Max, and the girl looks like she is ill. She is pale, a bit of sweat collecting above her eyebrows. But, Chloe knows Max well enough to know that this is her reaction to stress. She always had a very visceral reaction to the sensation of anxiety, even when they were kids.

“Hey,” Chloe says, “It’s okay, y’know. We’re safe here.”

_It is not okay/Nothing is okay/Please stop telling me it’s okay—_

“I know…I know.” 

“Do you want to catch some ‘Z’s?”

Max feels like she can’t catch her breath. 

“Yeah, I—uh, I kind of want to sleep in a bed. If that’s okay.”

Chloe smirks. “Sure. We’ve got five thousand buck-a-roos to blow. Might as well spend it on basic necessities.” She ends the teasing comment with a wink. Max feels blue butterflies in her stomach.

Luckily, Chloe still has the “handicap fund,” and Max’s debit card still works. They have a decent amount of cash, but since they need to buy phone chargers, food, and some kind of shelter (eventually), it will not last.

But they’re not in the place to think about that. Instead, Chloe turns on her turn signal and pulls off the nearest exit. There has to be some type cheap lodging somewhere around.

 

* * *

 

Checking into an old, rundown motel is surprisingly easy when you pay in cash, as Chloe finds out that day. It might have also helped that they are two pretty young girls wielding and dealing hundred-dollar bills. Can’t really pass something like that.

They are handed a key. The scratched up plastic tag says, _Room 93_.

Chloe finds it odd because there are definitely not ninety-three rooms, but then again, when did the numbering on motel rooms ever make sense?

They make their way out to the parking lot to find their room, and they look very much like vagabonds with their (rather filthy) clothes and greasy/windblown/rain soaked hair. Lord knows they need a goddamn shower and a good night’s rest.

(Lord knows they need a moment of stillness, of minds not screaming, of stomachs not flipping—no emotion, no emotion, just _stillness._ ) 

Sure enough, the room is not the ninety-third room, it is the ninth room on the third row of the building. She inserts the key and turns the lock, and the room opens before them. It is not much. The patterns on the linen and curtains are straight from the ‘60s. The room smells like cleaning products and must. But, it is somehow cozy. 

Both of them flop on the bed. Exhaustion takes over, and within moments, they are both asleep.

 

* * *

 

Max opens her eyes to see a dimming sky and a clock that blinks in bright red numbers “5:00.”

It has been fourteen hours of dreamless slumber, but she still feels exhausted.

She turns her head to see that Chloe is not there. If it weren’t for the sound of the shower running and the muted infomercial on the TV, Max might have turned to panic, but Chloe has not mystically disappeared or died. She is just in the bathroom. Everything is fine. Everything is okay. This is such a relief that she closes her eyes again.

 

* * *

 

“Hey. Maximus Prime. Wake up.”

She groans and reluctantly opens her eyes once again. Chloe is standing in her tank top and boxers, hair still damp. This time she has only slept for a few minutes.

“So tired.”

“Okay, you can’t even complain because you’ve been sleeping all day.”

She still does complain, another groan slipping out. Her body feels so heavy. She most certainly does not want to move. Also, moving would ensure that she’d have to deal with some type of responsibility, like showering, and she is not in the mood to engage in self care. Sleeping just sounds so much better.

The short puff of air that Chloe blows through her nose is an indication that she’s annoyed, but more worried than annoyed, but being annoyed is more her style.

“C’mon.”

She grabs ahold of the blankets and pulls, spilling Max onto the floor. Max responds with a yelp, scrambling to get to her feet.

Chloe laughs, giving her a hand so she can stand easier.

“That was rude.”

“Do you even know me?” Chloe chuckles at Max’s pout. “But, seriously, bruh. That was a killer nap you took. I was worried you were in a coma or something.”

“I’m just…tired. I don’t know.”

“I mean, it makes sense. You been fucking around in the time stream for a week, saving me and shit, so I don’t expect you to be in tip-top shape or anything.”

She goes from standing to sitting back on the bed again. To be fair, standing takes a lot of energy that she doesn’t have. Everything takes energy that Max doesn’t have. The idea that they still have longer to drive fills Max with dread.

“We don’t have to get back on the road _today_ , do we?”

“I’m down for whatever,” Chloe says, sitting on the bed next to her. “The only condition is that you have to shower and wash your clothes. You kinda reek.”

Max makes a disgruntled noise.

“You’re going to stink up my truck!”

“Like it doesn’t already.”

“Wow, _ouch_. That hit right here.” Chloe pats her chest over where her heart would be. 

“How about I sleep for, like, the next week, and then we’ll talk about being productive.”

“No can do, Maximill. We’ve gotta get shit done.”

Her face falls a bit, as if the very idea of doing anything has put her in a funk.

“C’mon Max. Why do you look all sad and stuff? We have a hotel room to ourselves. We’re supposed to be having _fun_.”

Max has an idea of what sort of _fun_ Chloe is referring to, but that takes a lot of energy.

“I don’t really feel very fun right now. No offense.”

“Then, hey, that’s something we gotta change.”

Before Max realizes what’s happening, she is being pushed backwards onto the bed, hands pinning shoulders against white cotton sheets. A bit of fear runs through her, but there is also a bit of excitement, and the whole thing is very awkward.

There is a certain tension between them. It has been there the whole time, but it is very obvious now because they are not being crushed by Armageddon or Missing Girls.

(Rachel Amber is STILL HERE.)

Yes, yes, yes. Rachel never goes away, but it’s _better_ , right? Chloe has to accept that and move on, right?

( _That’s fucking hilarious considering you can’t even accept that you’re going fucking insane._ )

Max is very sick of her intrusive internal dialogue.

And Chloe is looking rather impatient. It’s as if Max’s indecision is making Chloe restless. Max can’t tell if she is also aware that the air in the room is thicker than normal. 

Reading emotions has never been Max’s strong suit. But, to be fair, talking to people has always been far worse. 

But, she has to admit, she does look very, very cute in the dim light of the bedside table lamp. It has this eerie glow that reflects off her cheekbones and her blue hair and crystal eyes, and makes her look like this ethereal spirit that haunts Room 93.

In a moment, they have been transported into a different world. She is blue and beautiful and lovely.

“Would it really kill you if we kissed?”

Chloe’s gaze is not on Max’s eyes, and Max is trying not to let her face be engulfed in red.

Hands touch cheeks and lips meet. Ice melts and water refreezes. A shiver flies down Max’s spine, a gasp finding its way out of her. Chloe seizes the opportunity, slipping her tongue between parted lips. They are a system – energy flowing in, out, and between the two of them and the quiet room. It is not long before Max is pinned down by Chloe’s body, her lips against Max’s skin.

She likes this connection, this experience, but it is not enough to quiet her mind.

( _So, this is it, huh? You killed everyone so you could get laid?_ ) 

Chloe’s kisses underneath her chin, and Max coos.

( _There are easier ways, you know._ Murdering people _is really not the most efficient way to seduce someone._ ) 

Hands are underneath shirts, but she has a sick feeling in her stomach.

( _But, I guess it worked. Nothing like wiping out a whole town to say, ‘I love you’—_ )

Max gasps, this time in fear, and bolts upright. Chloe jerks backwards, almost falling off the bed. Both pair of eyes are wide, bodies frozen in space.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something—“

“N-No, no. It’s not you.”

( _Of course it is. Everything is about_ Max _and_ Chloe.)

She clenches her eyes shut and puts a hand over her face.

“Are you hurt? What’s going on?”

She’s about to answer when she realizes that the euphoria of arousal has been masking a killer headache, and a headache like that only proceeds a certain set of results. 

“Oh, shit.”

Chloe sees it before Max does.

Red.

Blood is on her hand, and it dribbles onto the sheets.

Both of her hands fly up to catch her leaking fluids. As fast as she can, she scrambles to the bathroom. Chloe follows.

“ _Shit_ , dude. That’s a metric fuckton of blood.”

Yeah. It happens to be one of the worst nosebleeds Max has ever had. She leans over the sink. and her hand fishes around to find a tissue. Chloe spots them first and hands her the box. Using a handful of tissues, Max squeezes her nose and tilts her head back.

“I didn’t even rewind.”

Chloe frowns.

“Too much excitement,” she offers, running a hand through her blue hair.

“Yeah…”

( _You don’t think it could possibly be due to the voices in your head?_ )

Probably a combination of both, honestly.

“But, you—uh—you haven’t rewound at all, right?” Chloe asks, crossing her arms and looking mighty uncomfortable.

“Uh-uh.” Not since the End of the World party. Not once. She has been a good time traveler. Not fucking up any other timelines. No sir. So, then, why was her body betraying her like this? Why must she constantly battle Max Number Two and her nose being a goddamn blood faucet?

She takes the tissue away from her nose, and it seems like it has stopped bleeding, but now she feels lightheaded and dizzy.

( _Yeah, losing a cup of blood will do that to you_.)

_Oh my god, do you ever shut the fuck up?_

( _I’m_ you _, dipshit._ _The real question is do_ you _ever shut up?_ )

Chloe notices the anxiety that crosses Max’s face. “Come on. Let’s grab some fresh air.”

The sounds of her voice knocks away the voices for a moment. She has to blink and stare before the statement makes sense in her head. The idea does not seem appealing, but Max follows Chloe anyway.

When they step through the doorway of the motel room, they are no longer in their private world. They are now in the Real World, and it is not a nice place. Chloe’s truck is beat up, the motel is beat up, the girls are beat up. The Real World is not a nice place. 

They sit outside on the curb in front of Room 93. Chloe lights up a cigarette and looks like she’s going to hand it over, but then, she remembers the girl next to her is not the one that likes cigarettes.

The girl who is next to her is not Rachel Amber. 

The girl who is next to her lays her head on Chloe’s shoulder.

She is Maxine Caulfield, and she is very acutely aware that she is not Rachel Amber. 

The mood shifts, does a complete 180. Instead of intense worry, a sluggish sorrow falls over the both of them. Max feels selfish for putting the emphasis on her and her goddamn _nose bleeds_. Like who cares when Chloe obviously wants to be on the road with Rachel and not her.

She is not jealous of Rachel (because she is alive), but there is a certain uneasiness that she feels. After all, second is not the same.

Why does she care? She’s _alive_. She’s with Chloe. Who cares if she’s not over Rachel Amber? Time may not heal all wounds, but it certainly helps.

( _Chloe can’t love you if she’s stuck on Rachel_.) 

Love, love, love—what a terrible word to throw around at a time like this. Yes, she very, very, very deeply cares for Chloe, but love sounds like such a finite word. It makes it sound like their relationship can only be one thing, but she wants their relationship to encompass the entire world, to be an ever evolving creature that binds them together.

But, Love? Love sounds like giggling turned to silence turned to screaming turned to heartbreak. Love sounds like a syringe in the neck, a body in the ground, a bullet through the brain. Love sounds like Chloe Price being stuck on a Dead Girl. She is not sold on the idea of Love.

“What happened to her? Rachel, I mean.”

Max lifts her head up and stares with doe eyes.

“I never…said anything? Before?” 

“I think I would have remembered.”

She’s stuck between trying to figure out which timeline she thinks she’s in and having a nervous breakdown. She does not want to have this conversation.

“Overdose. Nathan gave her an overdose.”

Chloe just stares at the road and the sky and says nothing. She blows smoke out into the chilled air. Max doesn’t know what to do, so she also sits there and says nothing. It is obvious that Chloe is mourning, and Max feels like her presence is inappropriate.

“Do you—uh—want me to give you some space?”

Chloe shakes her head, her blue hair bobbing around her chin.

“No. Stay.” There’s more silence, and then Chloe opens her mouth. “I’m sorry I’m making this hella fucking awkward. She just…”

Chloe takes in a big breath, and the resulting sigh makes Max’s shoulders feel heavier.

“She was everything to me. And I never got to say goodbye. And now she’s dead.” She stubs out her cigarette on the pavement. “I wish you could’ve met her. You would have liked her. Hell, everyone liked her.” There is a bitter tinge to the end of her sentence. 

Max frowns.

Who was Rachel Amber, anyway?

She has a feeling no one knows that answer. Maybe not even Rachel.


	6. Coming Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Six: Coming Down — Rachel has found God. She's found him in a lover, with his educated eyes and his head between her thighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She is the star, she is the maiden with hair of spun gold, she has the laughter of bubbling springs and the eyes of a summer sky. She knows she’s irresistible, and so, she uses it to her advantage. He will make him want her if it’s the last thing she does.
> 
> TW: Eating disorders, bulimia, restricting, and recreational drug use

She’s laying in bed, her arm draped over Frank’s chest.

Wow.

Everything is great.

Everything is _so good_ , oh God, it feels like she’s fucking flying. Nothing matters. Why did she think she had any problems at all? Things couldn’t be better.

And she isn’t hungry, so that’s a plus.

“Hey, you doing okay, Rach?”

His voice sounds like honey pouring over her body, and it feels like his words are physically caressing her skin.

“Mmm-hmm…”

It is hard to open her eyes, but she doesn’t want to sleep through this. That would be a total waste.

He kisses her on the forehead and moves her arm off of him.

“I gotta take Pompidou out. Are you going to be okay?”

She finds the strength to open her eyes. Normally, she would think that Frank isn’t much to look at, but in that moment, there’s no one else she’d rather be with. As if the world is moving in slow motion, she sits up, takes his cheeks in her hands and kisses him.

Frank can’t help but laugh, breaking the mood of the moment a bit.

“You’re fucking high as shit.”

Rachel flops back down on the bed and grins so wide, she wonders if her teeth will fall out of her mouth.

“Yes, sir. I am high as shit.” And she laughs.

Even with her body pumped full of…something (she can’t even remember what it is, but it’s probably some type of opiate), she can still see the pain in Frank’s eyes at the sound of her laugh.

The poor man is so in love with her, it’s actually kind of sad.

But, hey, you have to do what you have to do to get by in this world. Not like Rachel is thinking much about that in this moment. She’s not thinking about much of anything, honestly. 

But, one thought does cross her mind.

She wonders how long she can keep this up.

 

* * *

 

Rachel stands in front of the mirror and frowns. She looks _thick_.

And models are not thick. Models are waifs. They are ethereal beings. They are almost not real. But, Rachel, unfortunately is real and is bound by her humanity. 

How is she supposed to get a job looking like this?

Everyone tells her how thin she is, but she can’t quite see it, like there’s a filter in front of her eyes that distorts the world around her. Even the number that the scale spits back at her seems disassociated from her actual mass. Her hands drift over her body, and the tactile feedback does not correspond with the quantitative data.

She doesn’t eat that much, but it’s obviously enough for her to be all sorts of wrong. She needs to do something, change _something_. 

Rachel leans on the bricks of the Girl’s Dormitory during break. She has a cigarette for lunch. She watches the grey smoke billow in the hot, stagnant air around her, and she’s hungry, but what’s hunger when you are moving towards a bigger goal of success and dreams-come-true?

She sits in class and digs her fingernails into her palm. Real pain is easier than the pain that rips at her stomach.

She hangs out with Nathan at a low-key Vortex Club social, and she only takes shots from her flask because she knows the punch has a lot of calories. Even when her head is swimming and her body is begging her to please, please, please give it energy, she denies it.

She is at the Two Whales Diner with Chloe across from her, and this is more difficult because the cup of coffee in her hands is not what Chloe would consider a meal. 

“I thought we were going to get lunch, not just to drink glorified shit water,” Chloe complains, picking at her egg sandwich.

Rachel responds back with an ugly sneer. 

“Whatthefuckever. I lost my appetite.”

Chloe knows something is up, but she can’t quite place it. Rachel knows Chloe knows something is up, so she reaches over and snags a piece of bacon from her plate, just to prove she can. Her teeth grind up the saturated fat/sodium/cholesterol, and her mind calculates (45 calories), but she is so good at acting that Chloe can’t tell.

“Hey—what the fuck—get your own!”

She feels pride because she has won. Chloe won't know, no one else will find out. She is the master of trickery and manipulation. She can do just about anything.

But, this is temporary because it only takes few hours before The Guilt sets in.

( _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.)

It was one piece of bacon, but it’s not actually the _bacon_. Jesus, who the fuck cares about one measly piece of bacon?

But, she can still taste it. The meaty goodness caresses her tongue, makes her stomach twist in on itself. The worst part of it all is that she knows her mom has frozen bacon in the freezer and it would be so, so, so easy to just walk down stairs and (eat the whole fucking package).

Manicured fingers run desperately through hair.

Not easy. Not easy.

She pulls out her phone.

[I need adderall.] 

[Frank: ok i'll get it to you tonight]

[I need it now.]

[Frank: I can’t get it to you now jesus fuck]

Rachel breathes in sharply and feels like the world is falling apart around her. She tries to remember why she’s doing this, venturing over to the mirror and looking at her unacceptable form, but it’s not enough to get the thought of all that wondrous food that lives downstairs out of her mind.

Why the fuck did she go out with Chloe? She could have stayed at Frank’s and gotten _loaded_ and not have eaten a single fucking piece of bacon, why the fuck is she so goddamn stupid and _goddamn weak?_

( _You have to be skinny, you can’t do this, c’mon Rachel, you can’t fucking do this—_ )

It all happens too quickly for her mind to catch up. 

There are food wrappers and pots and pans and empty boxes—

A sob escapes her.

Thousands of calories. Probably. She doesn’t remember all she ate. It’s all just _gone_ , and oh my god, What Has She Done? Why can’t she _remember?_

She stumbles upstairs, feeling drunk even though she’s pretty sure she hadn’t had anything to drink, but since she _can’t fucking remember_ , who the fuck knows? It’s not a conscious decision, but she finds herself in the bathroom, guilt and disgust and fear and shame consuming her.

Her fingers find their way to the back of her throat. 

It all comes out. Lots and lots and lots of shit, shit she doesn’t remember putting in, but it all comes out. Her sins spill in the toilet bowl along with some blood as a reminder to not do this fucking shit again.

But, she does it again.

A week later. At school. She was going to skip lunch but Nathan cornered her and made her eat with him. During class she barfs in the Girl’s Room. But, that’s the last time.

Until she’s at a Vortex Club party, and she’s had one too many shots, and she eats exactly twenty-three chips and seven mini pretzels and a slice of pizza. She purges behind the school, in the bushes.

Rachel’s life is beginning to revolve around bathrooms.

Where is the nearest one? Is there one here? Is it a private bathroom? Is it busy? Will she have to disappear? Go back to the dorms, or find a secluded tree?

A One Time Fix has become a New Bad Habit, one that creeps up on her when she least expects it, and it always hits her so hard.

The one thing that helps is to get high.

Adderall. Cocaine. Heroin. Anything but weed. Anything that makes her forget herself in the clutter of her brain or hikes her up so high that she can’t think of anything at all. She’s high a lot, as it turns out.

Even alcohol, though she loves it, is a problem.

She binges when she’s drunk, and she gets real sloppy about purging. She absolutely _cannot_ be found out, so alcohol is a problem.

Rachel gets benzos from Frank as well. They’re supposed to help, but they don’t. They only make her complacent, make her give in easier, but then purging is harder. She’s going to get fat, so she stops the benzos.

She doesn’t know what to do. She always heard that purging was supposed to make her feel in control, but she has never felt more out of control, and it scares her half to death.

The worst is that Chloe knows something is wrong, and she’s always on watch. If Rachel disappears too quickly after a meal, Chloe will follow her to the bathroom. If she turns on too many faucets, there will be a knock on the door. Chloe is actually much more in tune with emotions and habits than people give her credit for, and Rachel doesn’t understand why she had to pick a best friend who cares so damn much. 

It’s a few weeks after her Fix has become a Habit that she’s in Chloe’s bathroom because she ate way too much (Goddammit, why the fuck did she trust herself around fucking pizza, god damn). It’s harder to throw up in Chloe’s house because her room is right across the hall and running water causes Chloe freak the fuck out.

So, she just has grit her teeth and do it.

She flushes the toilet (as a safety measure) and sticks her fingers back, and up it comes. But, she’s made the mistake of underestimating Chloe, and she comes through the door without even knocking.

Fuck.

There is a second where Rachel thinks she can talk her way out of this, but when she turns and looks at Chloe’s horrified expression, she knows its over. 

“Holy shit, dude.”

Chloe’s tone is even and measured. She’s trying not to upset Rachel, but Rachel isn’t really worried about whether she does or not.

She straightens up. Her insecurities turn to anger. She growls.

“What? Gonna yell at me now?” Rachel now sounds like she’s mocking her. “Gonna tell mommy?” 

Now it’s Chloe’s turn to look hurt. “N-No. I mean, it’s not their business, but _shit_ , dude.”

“Oh, shut up. Like this is any different than cigarettes, or beer, or weed. Good God.”

Chloe looks down, biting her lip, fighting back tears.

“Y-Yeah. I’m not one to talk, I guess.”

Using her foot to flush the toilet, she pushes past Chloe, heading down the stairs.

“Wait! Rachel!”

Rachel’s hand runs through her hair. She doesn’t even flinch at the sound of her name. She runs down the stairs and out the door. Chloe follows. 

“So, what? Are you just going to leave?”

“Yeah. Are you gonna stop me?”

Chloe stops once she crosses the door.

“No.” 

And Rachel lets her now signature sneer make an appearance before she turns and starts walking toward the only other person who understands what it’s like irrevocably fuck everything up.

 

* * *

 

But, somehow, Nathan doesn’t understand.

“So, what? You throw up?” 

Rachel lets her shoulders slump and her expression crumple.

“Yeah,” she whispers in a meek whisper that is so unlike her that Nathan balks.

“I…I was worried you were cutting, so I guess this is better?” She shoots him a glare, and Nathan catches the hint. “Ouch. Sorry, Rach. I know this probably hurts too.”

“It’s not that,” she sighs. “I just didn’t want Chloe to know.” 

“Why?”

“I don’t know. She looks up to me. I don’t want her to think I’m a horrible person.” 

“You’re not a horrible person—“ 

This sets her off.

“Haha, yeah, okay. Not a horrible person, but I cause the people that love me pain, and I just keep fucking up, but yeah, not a goddamn horrible person.”

Nathan looks uncomfortable.

“Well, okay. So you fucked up. Shouldn’t you be more worried about what you’re doing to yourself?”

“Coming from you? That has to be a joke.”

“Wow, okay. Harsh.”

She sighs, exasperation apparent in all aspects of her being.

“I need this, _okay?_ I can’t just…stop." 

“Why not?”

She doesn’t really know why not, so she gets angry again. 

“You know what, I shouldn’t have even come over here.” She gets up to leave.

“No, wait, Rach—“

“I’ll see you Monday,” she growls, slamming his bedroom door behind her. She feels really gross, but to top it all off, she has a very strong urge to make herself vomit, but that would probably be way too ironic for her to do in good conscience.

 

* * *

 

Half of her is kind of glad Chloe failed out of school. Don’t need to face her after all that shit went down. Okay, yes, that’s selfish as fuck, but she can’t even bear the idea of trying to explain herself. It’s so much easier to let time pass and have it feel less intense when a conversation does start. So, instead, she can focus her energy on photography.

Or, more accurately, she can focus her energy on Mark Jefferson. 

Maybe she has a little crush on him.

Little crush. Haha. More like a major hard on. She wants him so bad, and like her inexplicable urge to make herself vomit, she really, so very dearly wants to sleep with Mr. Jefferson, and she has no idea why. He’s definitely attractive, and he’s definitely cool and famous in the photography world, but she still doesn’t really understand why she feels the need to be around him all the time.

However, there is a lot to say about Mr. Mark Jefferson.

He has these dark eyes that Rachel just absolutely _loves._ She often feels as though she is looking at some form of God when they make eye contact.

He doesn’t flinch away when they’re alone in his classroom and she puts a hand on his arm. He tells her she’s beautiful, and her face blooms into a beautiful rose, giggles pouring from her mouth like a waterfall.

They are just fooling around, but Rachel wants more, she wants _more_ , she wants to brush his hair from his eyes and hold his freezing cold hands. She plays with the idea of calling him Mark but is afraid that’s too much, too soon. Instead, she brushes against him when she’s showing him her photos, and he lets her.

She is the star, she is the maiden with hair of spun gold, she has the laughter of bubbling springs and the eyes of a summer sky. She knows she’s irresistible, and so, she uses it to her advantage. He will make him want her if it’s the last thing she does. 

She stays after class almost every day. She asks him for feedback on her photos, she asks him about his photos, she asks for advice about life, she asks about his life. They spend many hours just talking, and even though Rachel tells herself that she’s building up rapport between them—

(She knows in the back of her head that she loves spending time with him, loves to hear the inner workings of his mind, loves being near him as much as she can.)

It’s not enough to be the best student in the class. She must appear perfect before him. Rachel must be a goddess that exudes confidence and allure, a siren that captures unsuspecting men in her clutches. So what if it’s manipulative? That’s Rachel Amber’s _whole game_. She gets what she wants by being what everyone wants her to be. So what if she might be losing herself in the process? It doesn’t actually matter.

Because Rachel Amber is getting what she wants.

So, after a few weeks, when he asks her to come see him after the day is over, she can’t help but feel a little bit of pride bubble in her chest.

“I just wanted to take a few photos. Bought a new lens, and I thought you’d make a good subject.”

Oh, yes. She would make a very good subject.

She stands in front of the white backdrop and brushes her hair behind her ear.

“Beautiful.”

Yes, she is, isn’t she? Rachel hears it all the time, but when he says it, her entire body viscerally reacts. Her face feels so warm that she has to giggle and look away. Her blue feather earrings dance around her jawline.

 _Click_.

But, that’s the shot he wanted. She looks so natural, so obviously bothered by his complement, that it’s perfect. He takes more pictures, and she twists and turns, working her angles, as they say. She’s not sure when it begins to happen, but at some point, he inches closer, and his camera is set down, and he has his hands in her hair, and their lips are intertwined.

Rachel knows she’s good, but goddamn, she never expected it to be _this easy_. She thought Frank and Nathan were easy catches, but Jefferson seems almost too willing to be intimate with her. Aren’t teachers supposed to need convincing? Don’t they have to uphold a moral code or some shit?

Well, whatever. Rachel doesn’t care. Rachel, once again, gets what she wants.

However, unlike the other times she’s been with people, she actually has _feelings_ for Mr. Jefferson. Her heart feels like it’s punching her chest, trying to break out of her rib cage, and her head swims like she’s high, but she’s very very sober, and her skin is lit up by goose bumps and insufferable heat. It’s almost too much for her, and as his hands explore her body, clutch her waist, grab at her backside, she finds unintelligible sounds and words dribble out of her mouth.

She has it bad, and it’s kind of embarrassing.

If Jefferson cares, he doesn’t say anything. He is too busy luring her in, egging her on. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and Rachel isn’t so above it not to notice. But, what is she going to do? Stop? No way. Not now. Not when she’s achieved what she set out to do.

She’s going to follow through, even if it kills her.

 

* * *

 

Due to a fear of being discovered, Jefferson mentions that they should relocate. A part of her wants to whine and complain, but she plays along because she is ready to do anything he asks, and if he doesn’t want to be in the Photo Lab, well, there’s probably good reason.

At some point it has become dark outside, and so, when they step out of the front doors of Blackwell, there is a certain ominous nature to their rendezvous. Like an unspoken command, Rachel obediently follows behind Jefferson, trying her best not to give any hint to a potential onlooker about what is happening. It is difficult because she wants to be near him, to touch him, to experiment with this new thing between them, but she knows that if anyone finds out, it will be the end for both of them. So, she reluctantly keeps her hands to herself.

She isn’t sure where they’re going, but they are headed toward the dormitories, which Rachel’s mind immediately labels as an A+ bad decision, but he seems to have some kind of a plan. They’re taking a rather roundabout way, though, behind the back where there are no trails and no lights. It seems very weird until Rachel realizes where they’re going.

It’s the janitor’s stockroom.

It is unlocked and unoccupied, but when they are inside, there is a lock on the door. It is almost like he has done this before.

The thought barely crosses her mind before they are all over each other once again, bodies held close as mouths mingle. As per usual, Rachel lets the person she’s with take the lead, see what they want, see what they’re into. What is surprising to Rachel is that Jefferson seems to be doing the same thing. He is not moving as fast as other guys she’s been with. He is far more calculating.

They break apart, haggard breaths filling up the small room.

“What do you want?” he asks. 

The question catches her off guard.

“W-What?”

“What do you want me to do?" 

Her breath is a sharp inhale, the very question striking her deep in the stomach.

“W-Whatever you want.” 

And so, he begins to unbutton her jeans. She is surprised again when she is sat down on a bin of some sort, and he is on his knees in front of her, and he pulls her bottoms down, and this is all happening so quickly that she feels dizzy.

She really wants to know how this is happening. How did this happen? How did she manage to get in this position? She looks down at him, and she is so close to hyperventilating, but he peers up at her with his educated eyes, and she’s uncomfortable and relaxed at the same time.

“P-Please,” she whines, feeling like she needs this more than anything else in the world.

His hands are on her bare thighs, and he gets this weird look in his eyes. There is an inkling of anger dancing in the darkness, and Rachel feels a flash of fear/arousal/excitement shoot through her body.

“Don’t,” he says, his tone dipping low. “I hate when people beg.”

Rachel knows she should feel a certain terror in this statement, but she does not. She just wants him so bad that she will do whatever he wants. 

“Sorry,” she whispers, trying her best not to sound desperate. But, with her ragged breathing and the mess between her thighs, it is pretty obvious that she is, in fact, very desperate. 

“That’s better.”

And then, he’s there to tweak at her insides, to control her from the inside out.

And Rachel, well—

Jesus, Jesus, God, _fucking_ _hell_ — 

This is wrong, okay? Okay, okay. _Wrong_ , but who has to know? Right? Right? It’s okay to have a _secret or two._ Especially because this is wrong, but _good_. Probably more than good, but— 

Her hands grab at his hair.

Ohmygod, if Frank knew—if Nathan knew—if _Chloe knew_ —

Holy shit, this is so not good, but it is _so good_.

This is everything she ever wanted—everything, everything, everything—

(But, she knows that it is easy to get lost in the moment, to let the physical experience of euphoria block out the gaping black hole that opens in her mind after it’s all over. She knows herself too well and knows this is only going to end in tears, but)

Who the fuck cares?

Chloe always told her to live fast, so that’s what she’s doing.

(Live fast by avidly and vividly self-destructing.)

Her thighs shake around his head, and she cries out his name, and this is probably as close to being alive as she will ever get.

(But, a part of her has to wonder, at what point does this go from Rachel Amber manipulating Mark Jefferson to Mark Jefferson manipulating Rachel Amber? Is there even really a difference? Where does one manipulation end and another begin? What is their relationship but one giant clusterfuck of manipulative _bullshit?_ ) 

That’s too much thinking for right now. Right now is base desire and—

(But, really, honestly, how can she think that this is good and okay?)

She knows it’s not _okay_ , but—

( _Rachel Amber is a **WHORE**_ ) 

Her grip tightens on his hair, and she is so close—

( _What have you_ done _?_ )

Her body doubles over his head and a high pitched screech is all she can manage because her body is a collection of misfiring nerve-endings and a fog of desire and regret and everything is collapsing around her and she can’t even stop a few tears from leaking down her cheeks because—

 _Oh God_ , what has she done?

 

* * *

How did he disappear so quickly, like a spirit who is now at rest and has no reason to exist on this earthly plane? A few hushed whispers, a promise or two, and then he’s gone. He leaves her as this heaving mess with her pants around her ankles and tears in her eyes.

It was good. But at what cost?

She’s laying in her own bed (alone), and she can feel something in the back of her mind shifting, almost like there is an audible _click_. She feels afraid, paranoid. She knows she has _done something wrong_.

This is why she doesn’t get invested. The moment she feels something, it is immediately turned against her. It is the world’s job to make sure she never has an authentic experience again because it all eventually crumples around her. 

Yes, she and Mr. Jefferson are now a _thing_ – an elusive, nebulous idea that implies something more, but it’s not implying a whole hell of a lot. She is glad it happened, but she has a very unsettling feeling in her stomach, one that makes her feel like making herself vomit.

Which she does. 

Silently, at 2:00 am, she hovers over the toilet in the girl’s dorms and let’s red wine and shots of vodka pour back out her throat.

Rachel, once she’s back in her room, stands in front of the mirror. If she’s skinnier, she can’t tell because she’s too distracted by the absence of one of her blue feather earrings.


	7. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Seven: Ghost — Chloe is looking for something that she can reach, but it seems like Rachel is always just too far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rachel Amber is probably fucking dead.
> 
> Everything is fine. Don’t you know?
> 
> Everything is fine.
> 
> TW: Eating disorders, bulimia, purging, drug abuse

Chloe’s arm drapes across Rachel’s middle, and she feels very much at home.

_“I don’t like them innocent,” Rachel hisses, grabbing Chloe’s chin with her finger and thumb and pulling their lips together. Chloe’s arms wrap around Rachel’s waist and they are together and, oh God, Rachel is so fucking hot. When their kiss breaks, Rachel continues, “I like it when people beg.”_

_Chloe has no problem with begging._

Rachel is asleep. She likes it when Rachel is asleep because then she won’t get up and leave.

_“Please, Rachel.”_

_It’s very nice to see blonde hair nestled between her legs. Rachel’s singular blue feather earring brushes against her bare thigh. She is a natural. She’s very skilled, and Chloe has to wonder how one person can be_ so electric.

 _But her thoughts are cut short by the gasp that leaves her lips and red hot intensity that flashes up her spine._  

Everything about her is—so—perfect. She’s even more beautiful when she’s asleep. Tiny breaths. Golden locks fanned out over her pillow. Slim legs intertwined with hers. Rachel Amber is otherworldly, and Chloe has to wonder what she did to deserve such a creature. 

_“R-Rachel—!”_

_Chloe forces out her name between clenched teeth, head dipped back, and toes curling. She’s perfect, perfect, and Chloe’s hand pets her hair, letting her fingers trail behind her ear. This seems to make Rachel tense._

She has to acknowledge, at least partially, that even though she has these very intense feelings for this girl, this girl seems to be ambivalent. Well, not _ambivalent_ , but there isn’t the same passion behind her actions as there is behind Chloe’s. And, she’d be lying if she said it didn’t bother her.

_Bzzt. Bzzt._

Rachel’s phone goes off on the bedside table, which causes Chloe to sit up and peer over to the lit up screen. Two letters ‘FB’ and a series of emojis are listed above the words ‘ _Text message._ ’ The muscles in her face tighten. All the names in her phone are the same: initials plus emojis. That way, no one could ever know who she was talking to.

And Chloe fucking hates it.

Why does Rachel have to be so goddamn _secretive_ about everything? Chloe never knew who she was friends with (she is friends with everybody), who she is texting (she is texting dozens of people at any given time), or how she truly felt about anyone (she tries to love everyone).

How could she be so fucking agreeable about everything? How does she maintain so many relationships?

_Bzzt. Bzzt._

Another set of letters and emojis pop up on her phone. This time they say ‘MJ,’ and she knows that there’s no way Rachel could be texting Michael Jackson because he’s dead, but she wouldn’t put it past her. Jealousy and anger swell in Chloe’s chest and she reaches over Rachel to grab her phone. However, this is enough to wake her up.

At first, her crystal eyes are sleepy and confused, but then she sees Chloe with her cell phone in her hand. And Rachel is not happy.

“Why the fuck are you touching my phone?”

Chloe looks like a kid being caught stealing the whole goddamn cookie jar.

“It kept going off. I was trying to put it on silent.”

“Nice try, Price, but you don’t fool me for a second." 

Her blonde hair tussles as she reaches over and grabs the device from Chloe’s grip. Before Chloe can say anything else, Rachel is up out of bed, putting on her pants.

“Jesus, Rachel. I’m sorry, alright? You don’t have to go.”

“Yeah, whatever. Got places to be, people to do.” 

Chloe can never tell if she’s joking when she says that. Considering how upset she is, Chloe wouldn’t put it past her. Even so, Chloe gets out of bed, not even caring that she’s only wearing a bra and boxers, and stands in front of Rachel.

“ _Rach_ ,” Chloe whines, tilting her head and putting a hand on her waist.

She doesn’t buy it.

“Fuck off, Chloe.” Rachel shifts away from Chloe’s hand and steps around her. “I’ll text you later.”

And the door slams behind her. 

Chloe’s not sure what to do with the increasing pressure in her chest. But, she knows Rachel will come back. She always does.

* * *

 

Sure enough, Rachel wants her to go to the junkyard and get fucked up with her. Typical. That’s what they always do. Not that Chloe minds.

They sit on the dirt floor of their hideout. American Rust. Where American Girls go to die.

Chloe watches, dead eyed, as Rachel pops pills. Not too many to overdose, but just enough that she is not there. She drinks beer and cries, and Chloe should probably be crying too, but she cries too much as it is.

Rachel lets her head tilt back and tears leak into her ears.

“Oh, G-God—I want t-to die—“

Chloe shakes her head.

“No, Rachel, don’t fucking say that.”

“I-I’m never getting out. How am I-I supposed to get out?”

“We’re leaving Arcadia Bay together, remember?" 

Something about the way Rachel’s shoulders heave tells Chloe that she’s not talking about leaving Arcadia Bay. This sets her mind wandering.

Get out of what?

She crawls over toward her, putting a hand on her knee.

“Hey. I-It’s okay—I mean, it’s not okay, but—“

Rachel’s head drops forward, and she groans out Chloe’s name.

“ _Please_ , Chloe.” Through her blonde hair, blue eyes meet blue eyes. Chloe can’t help but feel a pulse of excitement shoot deep in her stomach, even though she knows it’s wrong because her friend is in some sort of state. But, just the way her voice grates against her throat and her eyes plead with some sort of longing, it makes her insides melt.

(What she's longing for, neither of them are entirely sure.)

“What, Rachel?”

Chloe brushes away Rachel’s hair from her eyes. Tears roll onto her finger tips.

“P-Please, don’t leave me.”

Chloe’s hand jerks away from Rachel’s face llke she’s being burned.

“Me? Leave _you?_ I would never leave you. Why would you even say that?” In a drunken haze, she blurts out, “You’re always leaving _me_.”

Rachel closes her eyes and lets more tears fall onto her flannel.

“I’m sorry, I’m so s-sorry, Chloe. I didn’t mean—I know I’m shit. I _am shit_. _Please, just don’t leave me._ ”

Shuffling closer on her knees, Chloe reaches out and embraces her, letting her head fall into the crook of her neck.

“Don’t worry. I’m never leaving you.”

 They sit there, leaning against each other until they hear the birds begin to chirp and see the sun start to rise.

 

* * *

 

 

So, if Rachel is worried about Chloe leaving, then why does Rachel keep pulling away?

She’s disappearing a lot. Not like, vanishing, just like,  _leaving._ Especially after they go out and do fun things. Especially food-related fun things. She just leaves or goes to the bathroom for a hella long time, or says she needs to go home, or _something_. Is it something Chloe is doing? Is there something she can do to stop it?

When Rachel gets up to go to the bathroom, like a regular girl, she follows. When Rachel says she needs to go home, Chloe offers to accompany her. And, Rachel is not happy about it. Chloe is not sure _why_. If she’s feeling shitty, then shouldn’t she want someone to comfort her? What the fuck is happening? Why is Chloe always in the dark? 

A part of her is vaguely aware—no, a part of her knows and is terrified—that girls disappear to bathrooms to throw up. She’s seen the video for Stupid Girls by Pink. Although, she can’t imagine someone as cool and composed as Rachel doing something _like that_. That’s just fucking gross.

They’re sitting in Chloe’s room, lounging around eating pizza, and Rachel has seemed on edge the whole time. Even when they’re just listening to music, and leaning on each other, and smoking, and just generally being chill, Rachel is not chill. She eats maybe…one, two slices? But, she’s up and out of there without even saying a word.

Nuh-uh. No way. This shit ain’t going to happen in her _own home_.

Chloe gets up, speed walks to the bathroom door, and swings it open.

The words slip out before she can stop them.

“Holy shit, dude.”

Rachel is bent over the toilet, hair held back with one hand, two fingers pointed with the other. She shoots up, horrified.

(Other people wouldn’t be able to tell, but the alarm bells ringing between her ears make her eyes wide even if the rest of her demeanor is calm and collected.)

Chloe feels dizzy like the world is falling apart before her eyes. She tries to pretend like she isn’t as affected as she actually is, but when her eyes start to burn, it’s obvious that she fucking sucks at hiding her emotions.

Rachel is gone before Chloe can say anything meaningful, and she feels like she’s dying.

She stumbles back upstairs, tears running down her face. Everything hurts. Her mind is flying at a million miles per hour. That familiar feeling of _wanting to be dead_ comes back again, and she flings herself onto the bed and lets sobs overtake her.

Not fair, not fair, _not fucking fair._ Why is Rachel _doing this to her?_ Why why why why?

Not once does it occur to Chloe that Rachel isn’t doing this to her—that this is not some type of _random attack_ on her personally. It’s not even about the actual _purging_. Chloe just keeps crying because she just can’t believe that Rachel would tear herself apart like that and not _tell her_. Like, she can have her vices, just as long as she’s open about them. That’s what their whole relationship is based on: mutual fucked up shit.

This seems like a betrayal. 

Her anger begins to turn to self-doubt with a dash of resentment. The longer she thinks about everything, the more she begins to entertain the idea. If Rachel thinks vomiting can turn her life around, it can’t be _that bad_ , right? Rachel’s never done anything worse than Chloe has, _right?_  

Maybe that’s why she finds herself hovering over the toilet bowl, staring at the water that ripples inside white porcelain.

With a deep breath and an infinite amount of self-hatred, fingers find their way to the back of her throat.

And, Chloe could not have expected this.

She couldn’t have expected the euphoria.

_Wow._

She’s never had control like this before, and it permeates her skin, makes her feel drunk with power. She stands up straight and glances at herself in the mirror, and she imagines that her skin is glowing. 

A smile creeps onto her face. 

How the fuck did Rachel not tell her about this sooner?

 

* * *

 

Rachel notices that Chloe is losing weight. How could she not? One of the things that happen when you’re obsessed with your own weight is you become obsessed with everyone else’s too. 

It isn’t fucking fair. Chloe doesn’t even want to be a model and the pounds just _fall off her_. Rachel would fucking die to be as thin as Chloe is. So, if she had been distant before, it gets worse. 

The comments, too. Those get worse.

“Are you even eating?” Rachel sneers, crystal blue eyes stained with hatred.

Chloe balks.

“Of course I’m fucking eating.”

She’s eating, but not much. Rachel has the right to be concerned. Although, Rachel is concerned for the wrong reasons. Rachel is very _sick_. She is only focused on _herself_ because that’s all her energy-deprived brain can manage. She “cares” that Chloe is hurting, that Chloe is underweight, but she is more angry because she can’t be that thin. 

“Doesn’t look like it.”

Rachel doesn’t know that Chloe is purging, but she knows something’s up. And, Chloe isn’t going to deny it.

“What’s your fucking point anyway? Are you gonna tell Joyce?”

“Pfft, what would that do? Give you validation?”

“ _Wow_ , okay. You’re being a fucking dick right now.”

“Wow, okay,” Rachel mocks her, leaning back and pretending like her cigarette is a joint. It’s a perfect Chloe impersonation. “I’m Chloe Price, and I just decide to stop fucking eating because I want to, _ha ha!_ ”

This is so like Rachel, but Chloe has never had her wrath directed at her before. It stings more than anything except (all the people who have left her).

“I _told you_ , I _am eating!_ ”

“Whatthefuckever. Don’t give me bullshit, Chloe. I can see right through you.”

Probably the worst part of the whole thing is that, even though Rachel can see through Chloe, Chloe can’t see through Rachel. This frustration lights a fire in Chloe and her tongue lashes out and says things she doesn’t mean.

“Okay, _fine._ If you can see right through me, then what am I thinking right now?”

Rachel sits into her hip, cigarette hanging from her lips.

“Who knows? Please, do tell.”

Chloe (even though she will very much regret this) leans into Rachel’s personal space. Blue hair falls in her face, but it’s not enough to stop the stinging words from lashing out.

“I’m thinking, ‘Goddamn, if we’re both puking, then why are you so fucking huge?’”

Both pairs of eyes widen. Rachel steps back, shock making her face pale. Chloe’s hand flies in front of her mouth. The air in the room turns toxic. If either of them breathe, they will surely die.

“You fucking bitch.”

Chloe’s lip quivers.

"You  _fucking bitch._ I can't fucking believe you."

She can’t believe she even  _said that_. She hadn’t been planning on it—oh God, oh _God,_  why does she even open her fucking mouth?

Rachel pushes past her and leaves because, well, who wouldn’t? Chloe waits until she's alone before she finds a bathroom and makes herself sick.

 

* * *

 

Rachel’s gone.

Rachel is gone. One second she’s here and then _poof_. Not a word. Not a trace.

This fucks with Chloe. It fucks her up real bad. Putting up Missing Persons Posters doesn’t manage to soothe her in any way, shape, or form. Probably because she just had to borrow a shit ton of money from Frank, and then, oh yeah, she got fucking drugged by fucking Nathan Prescott.

That whole ordeal was a fucking joke.

The lecture from Step-führer was fun. A lot of ‘ _Why the hell were you hanging around Blackwell?_ ’ and ‘ _You better not be fucking around with drugs._ ’ That sort of thing. Same old, same old. Although, Chloe has to wonder what exactly happened. She remembers Nathan, remembers passing out, remembers waking up in his room and running out the door, but then there’s a whole lot of nothing. She’s not entirely sure how she got home or how David even knows about it, but she’s not about to ask, either. David would probably blame it on the alcohol or something. 

But, she knows she has to turn this situation around. Can’t just leave Nathan thinking he’s some tough shit. Also, she needs money, and this is a perfect opportunity for a little light-hearted extortion.

All of this stuff is starting to be real fucking hard to deal with, so it’s no wonder that all she wants to do is sit on the dirt of American Rust and smoke. At least she’s doing it with people. Although, Justin Williams can be very loosely defined as “people” and has never been her first choice.

Usually Rachel, Justin, and Chloe would hang out and smoke, so there was always a buffer between Justin and Chloe. Without Rachel, not so much. Justin never really seemed that thrilled to have Chloe around (especially after Chloe let it slip that Rachel and her were fucking).

They don’t really have much to say to each other, so it surprises Chloe when he acts slightly concerned.

“Dude, are you okay? You’re freaking me out.” 

Justin looks at Chloe with what could be considered concern, but he’s so high that it comes off more as vague interest. Chloe scratches her head under her beanie, a haggard sigh more of an answer than her actual words.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Bruh, you’re usually pale, but you look like fucking death. Sure everything’s good?”

Blue eyes flick up to meet Justin’s glazed-over stare, a bit of exhaustion spilling over into her movements. She does look pale. She also looks thin. She also looks tried.

“I mean, besides the fact Rachel fucking left without me, yeah, everything’s _great._ ”

“You know Rachel, dude. She’s a free spirit. Probably been planning to ditch this place for a while. Don’t take it personally.”

Chloe bristles.

“Don’t take it _personally?_ How the fuck else am I supposed to take it? We always hung out together, we had _plans_ to go to LA _together_ , and then she picks up and fucking leaves? What other message is that sending other than, ‘ _Fuck Off?_ ’”

Justin barely flinches at her outburst. It could be that he’s used to it, or it could be that he’s just too high to care.

“Dude, you’re harshing my buzz.”

“Whatever, Justin. You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Yo, you’re just looking freaked. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Chloe isn’t usually one to be like Rachel and storm out on a smoking session, but she’s over this.

“Fuck off, Justin." 

So, she gets up from her place on a stump and leaves the junkyard, feeling like a weight has been dropped on her stomach. Her mind whirls with

( _What the fuck is wrong with you? This is why Rachel left. You’re a fucking_ crybaby _._ )

and

(Jesus Christ. Goddammit. Why did she have to go? Why did she have to leave me?) 

and

( _Didn’t you know? Everyone who gets to know you realizes you’re fucking trash. Then they leave. Isn’t that what happened to Max? Isn’t that what happened to Rachel? You’re a fucking disaster, Price. The fact that you’re still shocked is kind of cute._ )

She’s about to get into her truck to get away from god-forsaken American Rust, but before she can muster up the energy to stop herself, she leans over and sticks a finger down her throat.

If nothing else, when she gets in the truck, everything is quiet.

 

* * *

 

It’s not the same as Rachel described it.

Rachel said she had to in order to stay thin, but Rachel was already so thin. And Chloe is too. Chloe knows she is. She kind of hates it. She has always wanted to be fit and muscular, but Oh God, this is something she can’t get out of. 

It’s not a body thing. It’s a mind game.

(I mean, of course, she hates herself, but not like that. It’s more of an all-encompassing hatred, that every part of herself is wrong, and the only option is to punish and run/punish and run/punish and hurt hurt hurt.)

The problem is that her mind is so fucking busy. 

It’s too much. It’s always too much. The self-doubt is crippling to the point where she doesn’t know what else to do but write on her fucking walls, to turn her body inside out.

Quiet is the only thing she actually wants.

Weed helps a bit. It makes her actually want to eat, makes her want to keep it down. But, she’s poor as fuck, and she already owes three thousand fucking dollars to fucking Frank Bowers and _ugh_. 

But, when she’s not high, it’s like her entire world is constantly collapsing in on her/voices and self-doubt/flashbacks/urges and compulsions—

She can’t sleep/can’t sleep/can’t fucking sleep goddammit—

What is there to do? What is there to do but cry and scream because there’s nothing good coming out of doing the _Right Thing_. What has school ever done for her? What has forming meaningful relationships ever given her? What is the point of functioning when it all turns to shit no matter what you fucking do? 

( _Why why why is everyone fucking gone/Oh God/Oh God_ )

Oh God

(Make it stop)

She’s just been so lonely, so detached, and so hollowed out inside. It feels good to be hollow inside. She just keeps hollowing out her insides.

A lot.

She eats breakfast and purges. She lays in her room listening to music and purges. She drinks a case of light beers and purges after every bottle. She goes to a show and she gets so drunk she doesn’t even have to purge because she just throws up all over the security guard.

Chloe doesn’t know this, but she is purging way more than Rachel ever did. Since Rachel’s episodes were related very closely to food, she had a pretty regular schedule, only purging when she overate or was feeling particularly shitty, but Chloe is very compulsive about it. Any time she feels slightly off, or her mind is giving her shit, or she’s having trouble sleeping, or she just feels like a total fuck up, she throws up.

And it’s definitely showing.

Chloe looks in the mirror, and she's no longer glowing. She’s a ghost. The circles under her eyes are so dark, it looks like she’s wearing eyeliner. Her tank top bags off her like it’s two sizes too big. Her knuckles are scarred at this point, past the point of bleeding and scabbing. Her skin looks lackluster and pale. Not to mention she always, _always_ feels like total shit. Always exhausted. Always five seconds away from bursting into tears.

Maybe she’s a little out of control. Maybe. Just a little bit?

Okay, so maybe she has a little bit of a problem, but it's nothing she can’t handle.

Right?

She’s sitting at the kitchen table one night, eating dinner, and David Madsen decides it’s a good fucking idea to start talking about how Rachel Amber had been such a goddamn nuisance, and well, he’s not glad she’s gone, but he’s not exactly _sad_ either.

Joyce jerks back, eyes wide. She knows how close the girls were. David doesn’t.

Chloe takes in a breath. The world is falling apart around her. Like that one time with Rachel, her tongue lashes out.

“Okay, _but_ , do you even know her? Do you even know what the fuck you’re talking about, _old man?"_ ” 

David’s eyes fair with anger. 

“What did you say to me?”

“I called you a fucking old man. What are you going to do about it? Call the fucking police?”

Joyce frowns.

“Chloe, please.”

“What, are you siding with Step Fucker, here? Please, Joyce. Tell me how your husband knows more about her than the girl that was fucking her.”

Both parents balk, bodies tense, hands clenched, eyes wide.

“That is _not_ appropriate to say at the table.”

“Oh, for fucks sake. You guys are such goddamn hypocrites.” She points at David. “You start talking about how Rachel was so awful, but you don’t know anything about her. You don’t know what she’s gone through. You don’t know about everything she did. She was fucking barfing everything she ate, and she was sad as shit, and you sit here acting like her disappearance is a good thing? _What the fuck_ do you know?” 

All this is too much for the both of them. Joyce responds with trepidation.

“Chloe. Why…didn’t you say anything before?”

“What, about Rachel?” Chloe’s practically laughing because she can’t believe this discussion is even happening. “Why the fuck would I tell you guys? You can’t even find sympathy in a teenage girl gone missing. Why would I tell you about that kind of shit? I mean, _come on_ , do you hear yourselves?”

David stands up.

“Chloe. You better watch your mouth. Don’t talk to your mother that way.”

Chloe stands up.

“Oh, _yeah!_ Like I’m going to answer to you, you fucking psychopath! You can’t even open your fucking eyes. You don’t know anything that’s going on with _Rachel_ , or _me_ , or anybody!”

The moment Chloe speaks, Joyce’s head tilts back a little bit, eyes closing.

“Chloe.” 

“Don’t even fucking try, Mom. I don’t care what you—“

“ _Chloe._ ”

Something about the urgency in Joyce’s voice makes Chloe shut up. Joyce’s eyes open, and they might seem a little glassy, but surely, it’s just from the lamp overhead.

“Are you throwing up?”

Chloe snorts, sitting into her hip and crossing her arms.

“Took you long enough to notice. You guys are _such great parents._ ”

 

* * *

 

 Joyce body slams her to the doctor so fast that Chloe’s head spins. 

They take her weight. Down fifteen pounds. She’s drifted to the underweight category. They take her blood pressure, and it is seriously _fucked_. The nurses murmur, not so quietly toss around the idea of admitting her.

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” Chloe barks at them, feeling like her autonomy is dwindling faster than she can preserve it. 

“Chloe, your blood pressure is in the toilet. You could die.”

Pfft. Die. Who the fuck cares? Rachel Amber is _missing_ so who the fuck cares?

“I’m _fine._ For fuck’s sake.”

“Chloe, watch your mouth,” Joyce warns.

Her eye roll is so exaggerated; it deserves an Oscar.

Eventually, it's decided that she’s not so bad that she has to be admitted, but they still put her on meds. Fluoxetine. It’s supposed to help with her purging _and_ her depression. Chloe is skeptical, to put it politely.

They’re driving home from the doctors. The air is so thick, Chloe feels like she’s breathing syrup. 

“Right. I don’t fit into society, so you pump me full of mind-altering drugs. Alright. That’s cool.”

Joyce is not having her shit.

“It’s either this or _the hospital_ , Chloe." 

“Jesus Christ, Mom, you act like I’m _dying_ or some shit.”

She shoots dagger at Chloe, but like always, Chloe can’t take a goddamn hint. 

“You just can’t accept that sometimes people have a mind of their own. Not everyone can just wake up and _handle_ shit, _okay?_ Sometimes there’s just some things you _have to do_.”

“That’s not—“

“Goddammit, can’t you just leave me _alone, mom?_ I don’t want to be on these meds. I don’t want your fucking doctors or hospitals. You’re just being so goddamn _overprotective_ —“

Joyce, in the middle of the street, slams on the breaks. Chloe is glad that, for once, she decided to wear her seatbelt.

“ _Chloe Elizabeth Price_.” Chloe looks at her mother as if this whole conversation just smells bad. “I am doing my best to help you, but all you do is push me away. I want you to be happy, but you never tell me anything. You tell me I'm not doing a good enough job protecting you, and then you tell me I'm overprotective. I just don’t know what _to do for you_.”

Chloe’s eyes narrow. Her mom doesn’t usually get mad like this, and so she finds it weird that this altercation is even happening. It’s like this is a _big deal_ or something. She shakes her head, blue hair falling in front of her eyes. 

“I don’t have _fucking_ to tell you _anything_.” 

Joyce lets out a ragged sigh, and turns her eyes back to the road. They drive all the way back home in silence.

 

* * *

 

“Are we going to do this again?” 

She shuffles her feet, hands in her pockets. She hates being weighed, but it is a good reminder that she is shit/she is nothing/she is a disaster. Weight is not the problem, but it is a physical marker that she can’t fucking function. Like that’s a surprise. But it fucking sucks to be reminded.

Looking through blue bangs, she gives the most intense glare she can manage, but since the nurse barely flinches, Chloe assumes she has seen much worse. 

But, it’s mostly talk. This is a doctor’s office. They don’t know you should blind weigh and check the urine for dilution and take off all unnecessary articles of clothing.

These nurses are stupid. They don’t even make her take off her jacket.

She steps on the scale and lets her head dip back, making sure she doesn’t look at the red flashing numbers that would typically burn into her retinas.

“Oh, nice work Chloe. You’re up five pounds since last month.”

Five pounds? Yes, several pounds of cell phones/coins/wallet/cigarettes/keys.

She has been taking her medication. It helps a little, but not enough to gain weight. She still purges sometimes, although the frequency has decreased to only a few times a week. 

It’s not that she doesn’t want to gain weight. She _wants_ to gain weight. She just doesn’t want to completely stop because the truth is, there’s nothing better. That euphoria—it’s unmatched—unrivaled—Chloe would rather die than give it up, so _yeah_ , it’s better to lie about fucking everything than to admit that 

She Might Have a Problem.

The doctor asks her if she’s feeling better, and Chloe says, “Yes, sir, everything is fine,” because how is she going to begin to explain that her best friend/lover will never love her back, that she showed her The Dark Side, that she was probably fucking other people too?

That Rachel Amber is probably fucking dead?

Everything is fine. Don’t you know?

Everything is fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm not just making this up. Chloe takes Fluoxetine in the game. It can be used to treat bulimia. I'm not just crazy, okay?


	8. Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8: Colors — Everything about Chloe is blue, and Max used to be covered in her colors. But, now, she can’t understand why she’s devoid of any color at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rachel is becoming a third wheel even though she is no longer alive.
> 
> (She can’t love you if she’s stuck on me.)
> 
> Time, time, time.
> 
> See what's become of me?

They’re back on the road, much to both of the girls’ dismay. But, since Chloe is driving, Max can rest as she needs. Chloe can’t. Not like she would be able to even if she weren’t driving.

She looks over at Max: asleep, peaceful. A pang of jealousy hits her in the stomach. How come she can’t sleep like that? Ever?

_I CAN’T SLEEP._

She had written on the walls of her room because it’s so fucking frustrating to be so fucking tired and not being able to fall asleep. She knows she shouldn’t feel jealous of Max, knowing what inner turmoil she faces every day, but goddamn, she’d do anything to have one night’s rest. Her fingers make their way up to her temple.

Chloe is doing badly. She left her meds in her room, which has been destroyed. She has run out of weed and doesn’t know where to get more while on the road. She doesn’t particularly feel like eating. But, she does feel like throwing up.

She feels horrible. She feels lower than low. She knows it’s impossible to get that awful feeling to go away just by being sick, but it’s too late in the game to change the association. Plus, the euphoria is unmatched. No drug can emulate it. It’s, dare she say, better than being high. 

Chloe pulls over. Max is still asleep. She doesn’t even move when Chloe opens the door. She crouches on the side of the road, throws up, and gets right back in the truck. 

And everything is quiet.

There are a few minutes where her mind does not spin off, where she does not think about anything. She watches the road signs pass by. She notices Max’s chest rising and falling. Everything is—

Quiet.

Why couldn’t things always be like this?

Why did she have to destroy herself just to feel fucking normal?

How is any of this fair? 

It’s not fair, but life is not fair. Life is actually quite terrible most of the time, and there’s no rhyme or reason for it to be that way.

This is something that Chloe has had to learn and relearn and relearn over and over and over again. It is only a matter of time before life pushes Chloe down, and she’s not able to get back up.

Chloe may or may not be expediting the process. Abusing substances and throwing up everything you consume is generally not considered to be healthy. But, healthy is not fun or amusing. It is much more rewarding to turn down the dark path and see the immediate results while simultaneously ignoring the future looming overhead.

This is how Chloe has learned to cope, and while it is very obviously detrimental, it’s allowing her to function. Poorly, but she’s functioning. 

She’s alive, but she’s not living.

They drive for a few hundred miles before pulling off the highway and checking into another fucking hotel.

Max falls asleep. Chloe struggles to. Chloe is beginning to resent Max for being able to fall asleep so easily. She eventually gives up and gets up to smoke.

She opens the window and blows out the smoke into the night air. She can’t help but look at Max and wonder how she does it. What is it like to just fall asleep whenever you need to? What does she think about? What does she dream about?

Unfortunately, not all dreams are as restful as Chloe would like to believe.

 

* * *

 

_She’s beautiful; tall and blonde. She is everything that Chloe wants. Max is none of those things._

_Figures._

_She pushes her hair back and her mouth moves. It is only after a few moments that her voice resonates between Max’s ears._

_“I want to know—“_

_Max finds it hard to keep her eyes open and to keep standing. She feels weak, almost euphoric. But, if this is Rachel, she has to keep awake._

_“—Will this life be the death of me?”_

_Her words are so sweet and pretty, and it hurts Max’s heart to listen to them._

_“Are you alive?"_

_That’s not what Max wants to say, but she says it anyway. This conversation is prerecorded._

_“I'm just living. Chloe told me to live fast. That’s what I’m doing.”_

_The longer Max stares at Rachel, the harder it is to stop herself from speaking._

_“Did you love Chloe?”_

_“Hmm.” Even Rachel’s hum sounds angelic. Rachel is a goddess in human form._

_“I want to know—“ Max’s lips move without her consent, “—Is this love?”_

_This time, Rachel laughs, and Max can now say that she also misses Rachel’s laugh._

_“Aw, Max.”_

_Condescending._

_There is a smirk on her face and a twinkle in her eyes. She knows that she has won. Leaning forward so her lips are just a few centimeters from Max’s ear, Rachel whispers:_

_“Chloe can’t love you if she’s stuck on me.”_

_Figures. Rachel’s always one step ahead._

_As soon as Rachel appears, she’s gone. She’s replaced by a boy, a boy she’s intimately familiar with._

_“Warren—“ Max’s breath catches as she says this. She is deviating from the script. “—Why are you here?"_

_Warren, somehow, has the same smug look that Rachel had. Except, on him, it looks menacing._

_“Oh, Max.” His voice sends chills down her spine. It sounds so unlike Warren that it is frightening to listen to. “You brought me here.”_

_Immediately, Max shrinks back, bringing her arms into her chest and peeking at him through brown bangs._

_“I don’t want to talk to you, yet,” she whispers, fear evident in her tone._

_“Too bad.”_

_There’s malice in his voice._

_Before Max knows what’s going on, she’s pinned against the wall. Her body shakes under his, tears pooling in her eyes._

_“P-Please don’t,” she pleads._

_He leans forward and captures her lips, but it doesn’t feel like Warren. The kiss feels softer, more delicate, but wholly unfamiliar._

_He says her name, but it’s not Warren this time. It’s Victoria._

_“Maa-aax…”_

_It’s like she’s singing her name. Victoria kisses her again, and Max’s heart leaps into her throat, stomach dropping to her shoes. When she pulls back, Victoria’s cheeks are mascara stained._

_“Why did you let him take me, Max?”_

_Max lurches forward, pain radiating from her neck, collapsing into a heap on the floor. She finds herself on a white tarp. It becomes clearer and clearer as Max adjusts to her surroundings that she is once again in_ that _room — in the_ Dark Room _— and she cannot move. Her limbs are heavy._

_However, instead of Jefferson or a camera lens pointed in her face, Nathan sits solemnly beside her, looking almost as out of it as Max does. She rolls her head to look him in the eye and he matches her gaze._

_“What—“ she tries to speak, but her tongue is thick and she feels like she is chewing on cotton balls._

_“What am I doing here? Is that what you want to ask?” His voice is softer than she has ever heard in her life. It is almost sympathetic, maybe understanding. Max nods softly. It’s all she can manage._

_The more Max stares, the more she understands that Nathan looks scared. She’s never seen him without his tough guy facade, and she’s honestly starting to miss it._

_“Jeffershit stuck me in here with you,” Nathan said. “He wants me to see you suffer, I guess.”_

_That’s not what Max expected to hear. She tries to respond, but all that comes out is senseless whimpering._

_“He knows that I actually don’t hate you enough to want to see you die.” He has stopped looking at her. “He’s obsessed with finding people’s weaknesses and fucking with them. He knows I don’t want to see you die like Rachel did.” Nathan’s voice wavers as he speaks. He is honestly scared._

_Max shakes her head, whimpering, “N-No, no…”_

_“Sorry, Max.”_

_She shakes her head in response._

_“I really am sorry.”_

_Max has almost forgotten this is not a memory until there is another prick at her neck, and when she turns, instead of Jefferson with the needle, it is Rachel Amber._

_“Nighty night, Max. I’ll be seeing you real soon.”_

_And the last thing she hears is Rachel’s quiet giggle._

* * *

 

Max wakes up frightened.

Her hand reaches out, tries to grab the person next to her, but Chloe is not in bed.

Instead, Chloe is sitting in the easy chair by the window. She looks out at the silver moon and the light illuminates her eyes and face. They look sad. Glassy. Like she’s been crying.

(Max has to wonder if she ever sleeps.)

“Chloe.” Max’s voice comes out hoarse like she’s been screaming for two weeks straight.

The girl jumps in her seat and panic flashes in her sad eyes for a moment. But, then, Chloe realizes it’s only Max, and the panic fades away.

“Max, what are you doing up?”

“Bad dream.”

“Oh, geez. Can’t catch a break, can ya, Caulfield?” A small smile peaks on Chloe’s lips. She gets up and crawls into bed, sitting next to Max. “Wanna…talk about it or something?” 

Yes, tell Chloe about Rachel Amber injecting poison in her neck. Really, such a good idea. That would end so well.

But, Max has to admit that Chloe is trying. A small sigh pushes out the rest of her words.

“No, it was stupid. I don’t even remember it that well anyway.”

( _Liar. You remember just fine._ )

“Well, okay, if you’re sure.” 

( _Tell her how obsessed you are with Rachel Amber. Tell her how much you think about her. I’m sure that will make her so_ fucking happy.)

“I’m, uh—I’m—I mean, it was just—“ 

( _But instead, you’re a fucking coward. A manipulative bitch. Where the fuck do you get off judging other people when all you do is fuck up_ —) 

“Okay, okay, sorry.” Max waves her hands in front of her face as if Chloe had been the one egging her on. “It was really fucking weird. There was Victoria, and Warren, and Nathan, and Rachel, and they were all, like, _haunting me_ or whatever.” 

Just as Max could have predicted, Chloe stiffens.

“You dream about Rachel?”

Rachel is becoming a third wheel even though she is no longer alive.

Becoming? Hah, Rachel Amber is the perpetual third wheel—

( _Maybe you’re the third wheel, Max, and you’re just fucking kidding herself._ )

Max curses herself for bringing it up in the first place.

“It’s not like I chose to or anything. She was just there, and she was really kind of terrible. She like _drugged me_ —“

It’s a lot for her to take in, so she doesn’t. She gets mad.

“Okay, really? That’s fucking ridiculous. She’d never do shit like that." 

“No, no, I don’t think she would, I just—“

“ _Shit,_ Max.”

“Chloe, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

Max watches as tears begin to well in Chloe’s eyes. 

( _If you needed more proof that Chloe Price is still in love with a dead girl—_ )

“Why do you get to dream about her?” 

This seems, to Max, to be a strange statement to make. Does Chloe _not_ dream about Rachel? Does she not dream? Does she ever even sleep?

“Chloe…what’s wrong? What are you talking about?”

A hand covers her eyes and her body shakes. This is the first time Max has seen Chloe break down into tears since That Night at the Lighthouse. It’s not that shocking that Chloe is upset, but it is shocking that something like Max having a dream about Rachel is enough to have her completely lose it. Maybe because it’s not about the dream. It’s about everything being compressed and compounded until the stress is forceful enough to push tears and words out.

“Like, _fuck_ , Max. Why does Rachel always do this to me?”

“What? She's not—she's not doing anything. Please, Chloe. Talk to me. What's wrong?”

She doesn’t want to let this fester, but at the same time, Chloe is difficult to talk to about such difficult things, especially when those things are Rachel Amber.

Chloe runs a hand through her blue hair. The dye has permanently tinged her fingertips blue.

Max picks up Chloe’s hand and squeezes it affectionately. The girl doesn’t meet her eyes. Max’s gaze falls to the hand she’s holding.

It had never occurred to Max that the dye on her hands matches the blue of her jeans. It is fitting that she's seen her pop pills of the same shade.

Everything about Chloe is blue.

Max’s eyes glance around, the tension of the situation making everything seem sharper: Chloe’s nails, the wind from the open window, the bed sheets.

She doesn’t speak because she can’t without feeling her mind slip out from under her. She wants to support Chloe, but she’s trying not to focus on why her thoughts are so grey. She wants to ask Chloe, but she doesn’t know what it means, and she’s afraid.

Max breathes in sharply, and Chloe sighs.

“I think she saw me as just a friend,” Chloe mumbled. Her hand runs through her hair again. “I think she was using me.”

“I don’t think—“

“I gave her _everything_. I thought she was the red to my blue, not to get all fucking mushy or anything.”

Max nods quietly, listening more than understanding.

“It’s like, the moment we started hanging out, we were…lilac, and she fucking hated being purple.”

Now that Chloe mentions it, Max can relate. When they had reunited, she could feel herself being affected by Chloe’s presence. She could think in a different way, speak a little angrier, plant her feet more firmly. Maybe Rachel hated feeling like that. Maybe she didn’t want to be changed by someone so much.

( _Why are you giving her the benefit of the doubt, Maxine? She tried to steal Chloe away and you’re_ defending _her?)_

“That’s…” Max begins, but she can’t think of the words to finish. She feels bad, but she also doesn’t actually feel anything.

“I mean, apparently she was fucking everyone she could. Everyone knew she slept with Jeffershit, _ugh_. Then, Frank. Who knows who else.”

Max can’t believe Rachel would willingly lay a finger on Jefferson, but considering Stella is under the same impression and that cryptic letter she left back at the junkyard, maybe there is some validity to the rumor.

“Two people does not mean everyone, Chloe.” 

( _There you go again. Rachel Amber was obviously a manipulative bitch. Hm. Sounds familiar, actually. Are you sure this just doesn’t hit too close to home?)_

Chloe’s eyes narrow, and she balks, ripping her hand from Max’s grasp.

“She was also fucking _me_ , and I had no fucking clue about any of these other douchebags! Why are you taking her side, Max?”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side, Chloe. I’m just saying—“

“Yeah, well, _who fucking asked you_?”

Max recoils, Chloe’s words punching her in the gut. The sensation permeates her entire body. She wonders if this is what black and blue feels like.

She gets up from the bed and stalks out. Max doesn’t move, only watches her leave. She thought she would feel regret or something, but after a few moments, nothing changes. Her eyes drift to the hotel carpet.

Max and Chloe are different. Chloe is blue. Sad. Displaced. Everything she feels is so intense that it cannot be contained. She must shout from the rooftops, write it on the walls in black ink, destroy her own body because, otherwise, how will she get rid of her pain?

But, Max is a dreary shade of grey. She has no affect. She knows she should feel sad, or guilty, or _something_ , but instead, she feels nothing. When Chloe holds her hand, it’s not the same. It used to be that her heart would leap, and she would feel warm, and the tips of her fingers would start to become tinged with Chloe’s shade. But, there’s nothing now.

( _Maybe you don’t love her as much as you thought—_ )

Max shakes her head. She does love Chloe, she just…can’t feel it right now. To be fair, she can’t really feel anything. It’s not Chloe’s fault, it’s hers. 

She knows there’s something wrong, but she can’t really find the energy to care.

Max lets out a long sigh and figures she should at least try to go after Chloe.

When Max opens the door, she sees Chloe hasn’t gotten very far. She’s smoking while she leans against the hood of her truck. Predictably, Chloe does not acknowledge her existence. She sighs, inadvertently watching the path of grey smoke floating from her chapped lips and into California night sky.

“Bet you want me to stop smoking too,” she grunts.

“Uh, no? I mean, yes, but—“

“Hmph.” Chloe looks off at the road and the cars passing quickly.

“Chloe, _please_. Can we please talk about this?”

“We _were_ talking about it.” She gives a sneer that would make Rachel proud. “Look how great it turned out.”

Hands run through brown bangs. It’s easy to see that Max is at her wits end.

“You told me yourself, you can’t just run away from problems. You can’t just _pull away._ ”

Chloe’s eyes roll in her head and she takes another puff of her cigarette. However, Max continues to press.

“I really didn’t _mean to upset you_ , Chloe. I promise I didn’t. I just…think you’re not giving Rachel enough credit.”

“You didn’t fucking _know her_.”

“T-That’s true, but I just get the sense that she wouldn’t have spent so much time with you if she didn’t care at least a little bit _._ ”

Blue eyes turn to the sky. Like the days after Rachel disappeared, Chloe watches smoke trail above her head. But, this time, instead of unforgiving sorrow, only a certain feeling of helplessness hits her in the chest. Max is right. Of course. Chloe hates to admit she’s wrong, but even in the back of her mind, she knows Rachel couldn’t have _just_ been using her.

“Jesus. Using that logic and shit, Caulfield.”

A small relieved sigh passes through Max’s lips. Chloe pushes herself on the hood of her car and lets her cigarette fall to the ground, closing the distance between them. She wraps her arms around the small brunette’s waist, resting her chin on the top of her head.

They stood like that for a while, both enjoying the stillness of the moment. Max’s arms draped over Chloe’s shoulders. Then, Chloe shifts a bit and pulls back so Max’s eyes lock with hers.

“You know even though I talk mad shit, I do love you, Max.”

Max breathes out as if the entire weight of Arcadia Bay still presses on her chest.

“I love you, too, Chloe." 

But, she has to wonder if she really means it.

She does love Chloe, doesn’t she?

But it’s that word again. Love, love, love, love. It’s so destructive.

( _She can’t love you if she’s stuck on me._ )

Hearing Rachel’s voice ring in her head makes Max feel physically ill. What business does she have thinking about Rachel Amber anyway?

( _Selfish. You’re fucking selfish, Maxine._ )

Surprise, surprise. She knows this. Max and her inner dialogue has had this discussion before.

( _Maxine Caulfield is a murderer._ ) 

But, before her mind can further berate her, Chloe pulls away, gesturing to the door that has been left slightly open.

“Maybe we should try to get some sleep.”

The idea sounds both relieving and horrifying. Yes, God please, she wants to sleep and yes, she does not want to think about the implications of like/love/death, but sleep is also a very scary place when your mind wants to tear you apart. 

“Yeah.”

Max notices that Chloe’s half smile doesn’t truly cover up the discontent in her eyes" 

“We still have pretty far to drive. Might as well not be dead for it, right?” 

“Right.”

The blue haired girl leads the other into their hotel room where both of them will pretend to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Sleep is not Chloe’s friend, so it never quite reaches her.

The sun rises early, bleeds into the room, forces her eyes open. Max still lays there peacefully, and Chloe is jealous/jealous/jealous. Why can’t she sleep like that? Why can’t she sleep like that? All she wants to do is fucking _sleep_. 

She gets up, and Max does not stir. She paces around the room, goes outside, smokes a cigarette. Max does not stir. She sits on the chair by the window, she turns on the TV with the volume on low, and Max does not stir.

She goes to the bathroom and vomits. She goes outside to smoke a cigarette, but she still feels ill, so she tries to vomit again, but there’s nothing left so she just coughs and hacks. She is not usually this loud, but Max does not stir. 

Chloe watches the clock go from 7:48 to 7:49, and she swears she can hear the red number cackling at her expense. She walks over to the bedside table and unplugs the clock.

Max stirs. 

Bleary eyes blink open, and she looks like a little doe nestled in the sheets. Cute and groggy.

Chloe smiles, but it does not reduce the fluttering in her chest. She is nervous, nervous, nervous. She is sad, sad, sad. She can only smile so much. She can only smile so much.

Because when you feel so much, it is almost a chore to act okay. It is a job. Chloe thinks she should win a goddamn Oscar for pretending as much and as competently as she is. As the day goes on, the feeling of discontent festers and blooms into flowers and caterpillars that scratch and itch at the inside of her skull.

Chloe feels like her heart is being strangled in her chest. She presses a hand over where it would be and breathes sharply in. She can feel _her_ absence, she can feel Max’s pain, she can feel her own body breaking under the stress of everything everything everything.

She feels _too much._ She always feels too much. It’s always bursting out of her, pounding against her skin, waiting to be released.

Which is why she throws up for the fifth time that day.

Everything is so bad. It’s so so bad. She forgot how bad everything feels when there’s no substances to fall back on. No Fluoxetine, no weed to blunt the sharp edges of her thoughts thrashing around in her head. 

Chloe stands there in the bathroom, and things are quiet, but she also feels like there’s something else tailing the silence. But, she doesn’t know what it is so she flushes the toilet and ignores it.

Max is learning. She knocks on the door.

“Hey, Chlo. Are you okay?”

Chloe looks at her own reflection in the mirror, and she has never felt separate from her body before, but suddenly she is a Ghost floating over herself, looking down at the _other Chloe_.

Weird.

She ignores it.

She opens the door and sees the hopelessly wide and worried doe-eyes of Max Caulfield.

“Yeah. Just drank a lot today. And, y’know, no bladder of steel.”

Lies shouldn’t roll off the tongue so easy, but they do. And, it’s worth it because the other girl’s face softens as if the only worry that she has in the world is if Chloe Price is okay. It’s not true—she has the weight of the entire world on her shoulders—but Chloe needs the attention enough that she’s willing to believe it.

“Right. Well, as much as I don’t really want to, we should probably keep driving,” Max mumbles.

“Ugh. Yeah. Never thought I’d say it, but driving fucking sucks.”

A tiny hand brushes brown bangs away from her blue eyes, and even the simple action makes Chloe’s heart swell.

Damn. Who decided to let Max get so fucking cute?

“Yeah…I feel that…”

They’re packed up and out of the hotel in no time because, well, they still don’t really have luggage. The thought might strike Chloe as sad, but she’s still bogged down with endorphins and the vague taste of disassociation. She walks out of the door, and she feels slow, which is a whole different experience, and she doesn’t exactly mind because it feels weird, not bad.

Her hand wraps around the handle of the car door, and it is very cold against her skin, and she’s warm and clammy but hadn’t realized it before this moment. She pulls it open and wades through the air like it’s liquid. Sitting behind the wheel, she stares at the closed door of the motel room and everything seems a little out of focus.

Weird.

She ignored it.

Max turns on the radio. Chloe pulls out. She heads toward the highway.

Chloe has to pay extra attention to her gas pedal because she seems to be going slower than she usually does. That disassociation that she felt in the bathroom has returned. She’s watching herself drive.

That feeling only lasts for a moment before she snaps back to herself, but something is wrong. She no longer feels weird; she feels weak and her head is swimming. She hears Max’s voice, but it’s so far away that she can’t understand what she’s saying.

Her vision blurs at the edges, and like that night the Nathan Prescott dosed her, a black void engulfs her.

 

* * *

 

Chloe is acting weird. Distant. Detached. Quiet. All the things that do not describe Chloe Price.

And Max is worried. Obviously. After that fight over the Girl Long Gone, Chloe has been disappearing to the bathroom _a lot_. And Max is not stupid. No one pees that much, not even with the amount of Coke that Chloe drinks. She’s not exactly sure what’s happening, but she knows it's not right. 

It’s not like she’s suspicious, per say. It’s just that Max doesn’t want Chloe to start pulling away any more than she already has and become resentful. They’re in it for the long haul. She can’t give up yet. It’s only been a few days, give or take. How are they supposed to last the rest of their lives?

A part of Max wants to believe this is just an acute exacerbation of _something_ Chloe has always gone through, but the truth is Max doesn’t know her well enough to make that judgment.

(She’s terrified that maybe she made _the wrong choice_ , that they were never meant to stay together, and she let a whole bunch of people die for something that was never going to last.)

( _So, you only Sacrificed Arcadia Bay because you wanted to_ date her _? Are you fucking serious? You would let Chloe die if she wasn’t in love with you? What kind of sick person are you, Max?_ )

Chloe’s not the only one struggling. But, Max doesn’t want to cry and scream when Chloe is already in her own world. She’ll dive farther down in the recesses of her own mind, and Max isn’t sure she has the energy to pull her back out. So, Max shuts her mouth. She can keep her demons inside her for now.

The key words here are “for now.”

She’s disappeared into the bathroom again. Is Chloe okay? Probably not. The water is running for a few minutes. It’s the same thing every time. 

(Max has never had nor known someone with an eating disorder. She does not know the signs, the behaviors. She is genuinely in the dark and genuinely concerned.)

This time, it’s been more than a few minutes. It’s been like ten. The water is still running. The words echo once again through her mind:

 _Is Chloe okay?_  

Max knocks on the door. The faucet turns off. It takes a second, but Chloe appears.

The other girl tries to hide her shock, but it can be seen in her wide eyes that Max knows something is wrong. Chloe’s skin is a ghastly shade of pale grey and her eyes are glossed over as if she is actually dead. Max is going to say something, but the words catch in her throat, and if it weren’t for Chloe’s excuse, Max might have broke apart on the spot.

But, Chloe is smart. She can work her way out of any situation if she tries hard enough. Max wants to believe that it’s just that Chloe has a tiny bladder, but she doesn’t quite believe her. And for good reason. Chloe looks _terrible_. The stress oozes from her, and it is so unlike Chloe that Max feels uncomfortable being around her.

Even as they get ready to leave, Max barely makes eye contact with Chloe. They don’t say anything. Chloe doesn’t seem to notice. It looks like her mind is elsewhere. Even as they get in the car and begin down the road, something seems off about the girl with blue hair. 

Max tries to strike up conversation. 

“So, how far are we going to try to get today?”

The question is simple enough, and it’s open for debate, so Max expects a good five or ten minutes of deliberation to clear out some of the back-breaking silence that has hung in the cab of Chloe’s truck for the past five hundred miles.

However, Chloe doesn’t say anything. She just stares at the road, a white-knuckle grip on the wheel. It dawns on Max that she looks extremely nervous, very much on edge.

“Hey, Chlo. You okay?”

There is another beat of silence, and Chloe’s eyes shut, her shoulders and head slumping forward, hands falling off the wheel. 

The truck veers to the side, off the road.

Max panics.

Before she realizes what she’s about to do, her hand stretches out in front of her, and her nails dig under the seams of time, ripping it back to reveal a myriad of shades of red, yellow, and black.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

 

It is only a few minutes, but it is enough to get them back before Chloe could drive them off the highway.

“ _Chloe!_ What is _wrong with you?_ ”

Having rewound, Max forgets that Chloe can’t remember what had just happened.

“H-Huh?”

“Pull over!” 

“What? Why?” 

“Just do it! _Now!_ ”

At the horrified tone of Max Caulfield’s shouts, Chloe has enough lucidity to pull her truck to the shoulder of the highway.

Once the car is to a stop, Max gives out a heaving breath, her heart pounding inside her skull. She turns to meet Chloe’s frazzled eyes.

“ _Fuck_ , Chloe!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, what’s wrong?”

“Why are you passing out behind the fucking wheel?! Are you fucking crazy? Holy shit!”

Chloe recoils, balking at the accusation. She shakes her head and picks her hands off the wheel.

“I-I, uh, _what?_ ” She blinks and pushes blue hair out of her eyes. “M-Max, did you just—“

“Yes! I fucking rewound! Because you were about to kill us both!”

Max’s heartbeat shakes her entire body. She finds that her hands have drifted up to face, almost by habit. Her head has already begun to throb, and a nose bleed is only inevitable.

“ _Chloe!_ What the fuck is going on?”

The excitement must be too much, or it is already predetermined that Chloe’s body is at some sort of breaking point because Chloe, once again, loses consciousness, her body slumping in her seat. She’s still breathing, thank god, but the sight is enough to make tears stream down Max’s face. 

One hand reaches out and shakes Chloe’s body, the other catches tears and the blood running onto her fingers.

What’s happening? What’s happening? What is happening? 

She’s too scared to call 911.

Hospitals, man. Freaky shit goes on there. Needles and drugs and stuff.

Instead, she makes sure Chloe’s pulse is stable (Google: _what is a normal heart rate_ ), and then pulls her to the passenger side. Max drives them to the motel and slaps down another 50 dollars. They’re not getting to LA anytime soon.

Trying her best not to make a scene, she takes Chloe from the car and tries her best to carry her inside. Even though Chloe is very thin, Max is also weak and tired. It’s difficult. It’s also difficult when tears are streaming down your face. But, somehow, Max manages to get Chloe to the bed, placing her down as if she were the Sleeping Beauty and not the sad, displaced teenager of a town long gone. 

Max watches helplessly as Chloe lays there, and she can’t stop crying. Chloe can’t die again. No, she _just can’t_. She _saved her life_ so many times that it just wouldn’t be fucking fair for her to die now.

Her fingers itch to grab the phone and call an ambulance, but anxiety strangles her, makes he unable to make a decision, rational or not. Instead, she lets her mind get distracted by the guilt/the fear/the _quiet_. 

( _How could you rewind/how could you let her get like this/why didn’t you fucking notice something was wrong/what is wrong with you/what is wrong with you/what the fuck is wrong with you?_ ) 

Max is not sure how much time is passing because her head hurts _so fucking bad_. She gets a migraine and then her nose starts bleeding again, and she has to go into the bathroom and try not to panic because the rewind is definitely fucking her up, she just knows it, she just knows it.

She pinches her nose with toilet paper, tilting her head back.

Time, time, time.

What a concept.

How much time is passing?

She can’t tell.

The next thing she knows, she is leaning over the sink, looking at her reflection in the mirror. It is a bit weird to see herself so pale, so without definition. The last time she had this intimate moment with herself and her reflection, she was about to destroy the fabric of time by saving Chloe.

After the shame of (killing so many people/letting Kate down/running away with Chloe) sets in on her, she looks away, fighting the urge to vomit.

( _It’s your fault._ )

Yes, yes, yes, she _fucking knows_ its her fault. Goddammit, why do these thoughts continue to haunt her? She knows she fucked up. Why does she have to keep _dealing with this?_

Max’s breathing is too heavy. She feels dizzy.

But, then she hears Chloe’s voice.

This wakes her up from her state, clearing the fog away faster than she knew was possible. She rushes out of the bathroom to see Chloe sitting up on the bed, eyes wide and confused.

“ _Chloe_.”

Her name comes out as a sob, tears pouring out again. Chloe looks a bit out of it, but she definitely is concerned about Max. Max rushes over to the bed and throws her arms around Chloe. 

“Oh, C-Chloe, I’m so glad you’re alright. I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry I didn’t take you to the hospital—I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know what to do—“

“Max, shut up.”

Max shuts up.

The blue haired girl looks exhausted, but she is alive, and she doesn’t like seeing Max at her wits end like this. 

“I’m okay.”

“No, _you’re not_. Why are you passing out behind the wheel?”

Chloe’s face grows steely.

“I don’t sleep well.”

Max knows this, but she feels like there’s something else going on. She _knows_ there’s something else going on. But, she doesn’t know what, so how is she supposed to call her on her bluff?

“That’s it? Just…not sleeping?”

“Insomnia’s a bitch.” 

Sure, but does it make someone pass the fuck out like that?

Max doesn’t know what to say, so she just looks sad. The voices in her head are so loud—

( _You’re a goddamn waste of space, Max Caulfield. You are the worst/the worst/the fucking worst. She’s lying to you, and you know it, but you’re a fucking coward and won't call her out on it—_ )

“We…shouldn’t drive for a while.”

“But, we can’t just stay here forever.”

“Are you telling me you’re never going to sleep _ever?_ ”

“No—“

“Let’s just chill out, okay? I don’t want to drive anywhere after that, honestly.”

Chloe looks guilty. Her hand run through her hair. Her fingers are still blue, but it seems like her nail beds are too.

“It was bad, huh?”  
  
“Yes. _Really bad._ ” 

She had to rewind. She said she was never going to, but she fucking did it. She didn’t even think about it. She just did it. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want Chloe to die. So, she did it.

Death means nothing when you can just undo it.

“ _Shit, Max._ I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to make a scene like this.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I just—I just don’t know what to do for you, Chloe.”

Chloe stiffens as if she’s heard those words before.

It’s in Chloe Price’s nature to avoid sensitive subjects, so she smiles and says, “You could get me some ice or something. That would help.”

Max can’t really argue with that.

“That’s not what I meant, but—“ Another sigh. “Sure, yeah.”

As she gets up and grabs the ice bucket, Max has to chide herself for wondering if Chloe might die if she leaves the room. Chloe doesn’t seem as concerned.

“Thanks man. For everything.”

Max frowns.

“No problem. I just want to be there for you.”

And Max disappears out the door. The ice machine is in a little room near the main office. The whole process gives her the opportunity to bring herself down. She takes deep breaths as she enters the room and presses the button on the machine that dispenses the ice.

Things are okay. Things are okay. Things are okay.

The bucket is full. She has to go back to the room now.

She walks out and closes the door with a hollow _slam!_

But, when she turns around, she freezes.

“ _Hi, Max._ ”

Her breath catches in her throat. The bucket of ice clatters to the ground. Ice cubes scatter the parking lot.

“Wha—“

“ _What? Aren’t you glad to see me?_ ”

She brushes her long blonde hair out of her crystal eyes. A blue feather flutters against her chin.

“ _I told you, I’d see you real soon, Max._ ”


	9. Haunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9: Haunting — Max's actions do indeed have consequences. It's only common sense that a rewind means she has to sacrifice a bit of her sanity. Either that or Rachel Amber is actually haunting her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was as pure as a river, now I think I'm possessed.
> 
> Chloe has always resented you.
> 
> (LIKE I DON'T KNOW THAT)
> 
> Why is every-fucking-thing always about Rachel Amber?

She’s beautiful; tall and blonde. She is everything that Chloe wants.

( _Everything that Max wants_.)

She shakes her head, trying to clear the fog, but she can’t. She tries to claw her way out of the haze, but she can’t. She tries to get the visage of Rachel Amber to _go away_ , but she can’t. 

 _She walks closer, chin tilted down just enough so she looks like she’s about to pounce on Max. She is frightening, yet she is more beautiful than Max could have ever imagined. High cheekbones, bright blue eyes, voluminous golden hair, tiny waist, perfectly cool demeanor._  

Max is frozen where she is. She doesn’t even bend down to collect the fallen bucket.

_A hand outstretched._

_It threads through Max’s brunette bob, drifts down to her waist, pulls the girl into her. A gasp catches in Max’s throat, and all of a sudden, the haze has turned much thicker, and she is drowning in the aura of Rachel Amber._

_“Don’t look at me like that,” Rachel smirks._

What is happening, what is happening, what is happening. How is this possible? Rachel is dead. This is not right. This is not right. Something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.

(Time travel can seriously fuck with your head. Whether or not Max realizes it, she has caused another very large problem by rewinding. Her actions do indeed have consequences. But, who’s to say whether this Rachel is a real Rachel brought through time or a hallucination caused by some fucked up shit in her brain?) 

“What are—What are you—d-doing—“ Max tries to pull away, but _her_ _grip is stronger_. “You can’t be real, you’re just—“

 _“Oh, I feel pretty real.” Her words sound like a physical sensation. They crawl down her spine and crawl into her chest, and uncertainty strangles the sense out of her. “I’m sure if you asked Chloe, she’d tell you that I’m real.” That hand on Max’s hip tightens its grip. Nails sneak underneath her t-shirt and dig into_ her _skin._

Max hisses, surprised at the sudden shock of pain.

_“That felt real, didn’t it?”_

Fear spreads through her, and she pushes _her_ away and stumbles back, but before Max can reorient herself, she is on the ground, splayed out like her bucket of ice. It looks like Max just fell because Rachel Amber has disappeared again. She lays on the ground and breathes heavily, scared and bewildered.

That was—

That was one of the most frightening experiences of Max’s life.

And that’s saying something. 

It takes a second, but she picks herself off the ground. She collects the bucket, fills it back up with ice and rushes back to the room.

That didn’t actually happen. She never saw Rachel Amber, no way. No way, no way. Not her, not her. She was just imagining things. She was just making things up. That was not real.

(How many times does she have to say that until she starts believing it?) 

She’s self-conscious that she may have been gone too long, but that’s only because she can’t see the look of terror on her face. She opens the door. 

Breathing ragged, face flushed, eyes wide.

Chloe, even though she’s still a bit out of it, can see that something is wrong. She’s not so self-centered that she can’t recognize that Max is probably hella freaked after…what happened. However, there’s no way of her knowing what is actually going on in Max’s head.

“Whoa, Max. You okay? Looks like you just saw a ghost.”

Haha.

The flush painting Max’s cheeks drain. Now she looks like the ghost.

“I—I just, um, sorry.” A hand goes to her forehead as if it would help the anxiety that has built up in her chest. “Just, uh, kinda freaked.”

Chloe’s eyebrows crease as she watches Max come over and place the bucket of ice on the bedside table.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She sticks her hand in the bucket and pops ice cubes in her mouth. 

Max sits on the seat by the window and sighs. She closes her eyes for a second, but it is a second too long.

_“You should probably tell Chloe about me, Max.”_

She opens her eyes and _sees Rachel sitting next to Chloe in bed. They look almost picture perfect. Max thinks for a second that she may have actually traveled back in time, that this might actually be real because Rachel and Chloe look so natural and comfortable together._

“Max?”

Doe-eyes blink.

“Huh?”

Rachel is gone.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

She blinks again.

_Oh God._

She’s going fucking crazy.

_“And this is news to you?”_

She can’t even see her, but her voice is in her head.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

“Max.”

“Hm?”

“You’re freaking.”

Yeah, no shit. Was it her spaced out stare or her shaking hands that gave it away?

“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. I just want to know if you’re okay.”

Max falls back into her script. Protect Chloe/Save Chloe/Chloe is the only one who matters/Chloe is the number one priority.

“I’m more worried about you, Chloe.” 

Max isn’t even looking for it, but she sees how Chloe perks up at the words. She wants to know people care about her. She wants people to feel sorry for her. It feels good, after all. Attention is nature’s most powerful medicine.

“Aw, Max, that’s sweet. But, if you’re going through shit, I want to be there for you too.”

She’s telling the truth, but a part of Chloe doesn’t want to talk about Max.

(Everything is about Max. Max is the Everyday Hero. She has all the _real drama_ about her, the real symptoms, the real pain. Chloe is just a sad little girl who got pushed down one too many times. She feels guilty, but not guilty enough to stop.) 

"No. I just want to make sure you're okay."

Chloe gives a tired smile.

“Thanks, Max.”

Max also offers her own ragged, dreary smile.

“You don’t need to thank me. I told you that you were my Partner in Crime. I meant it.”

“Well, I meant it when I said you were my Partner in Time.”

For the first time in a few days, a warmth swells in Max’s chest. Maybe she’s not so devoid of color after all.

 

* * *

 

She’s tired.

Max lays on the bed backward, head at the foot of the bed and feet by the headboard.

Chloe has a bit more energy than before, standing up and pacing around the room.

“You’re making me nervous,” Max mumbles, letting her eyes fall on Chloe tense form. Chloe looks almost offended.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like being cooped up in this damn motel.”

Max sighs loudly. It’s not like she _wants to be_ stuck in this tiny ass room, but she’s honestly fucking scared that Chloe is going to drive them off the road again. And Max can’t handle another rewind. She just can’t. She can’t take the risk.

Speaking of rewinding, Rachel has been quiet. It makes Max nervous. 

(When is she coming back? When is she coming back? When is she coming back?)

“Do you think I like it?” Max lets her head dip back off the bed, looking at the room upside down. 

“ _No_.” Chloe stops pacing and looks out the window at her truck. “I just want to _go._ ”

Max sighs again.

“I know. Me too. I just—” Reluctantly, she sits up on the bed. “I’m just scared. Okay?”

Chloe stops pacing.

“Yeah.”

Guilt crystallizes on her. It wasn’t like she didn’t know how much Max was affected by, y’know, almost dying for the nine millionth time, but being forced to think about it makes her feel ill. She feels like she needs to be sick, and there’s no way she can disappear and barf without Max freaking.

How do you cope with emotions in a healthy way? 

“Wanna drink?” 

Whatever. Healthy isn’t fun or amusing.

With the third and last sigh, Max turns to make eye contact with Chloe.

“Yeah.” 

“Thank fucking God. Maybe you’re not so chicken shit anymore, Caulfield.”

Chloe leaves to retrieve her emergency bottle of whiskey from under the passenger seat of her truck.

Max takes a deep breath to try to relieve the anxiety building up in her chest, but it just makes everything worse.

_“Max Caulfield is chicken shit.”_

She bites her lips.

_She’s back._

“You say that like I don’t know.”

_Rachel places herself behind Max on the bed, wrapping her arms around her waist and placing her head in the crook of her neck._

_“Just a little reminder. Because you know this process would be so much easier if you just told the damn truth.”_

( _LIKE I DON’T KNOW THAT._ )

Heels of hands find their way to eye sockets. They press until she sees stars.

“Leave me alone.” 

_“Oh, Max. We both know you don’t actually want that.”_

Her hands fall to her lap. It takes all of her strength not to look at the girl behind her.

Thankfully, Chloe busts through the door with her handle in tow.

“I’m not saying Frank was a great guy, but he did come in handy when I needed to get booze.”

 

* * *

 

Max doesn’t usually drink, but she doesn’t mind when Chloe is sitting in front of her and _Rachel is sitting behind her._ Chloe talks to her softly, and _Rachel gently coaxes the glass back so more and more liquor pours down her throat._  

It feels good. It burns, but it’s good. Her mind can unravel.

Maybe it's not a good thing. Maybe she should be trying to keep a hold of her sanity.

_“Sanity? You think you have any of that left?”_

_Her giggles pour over her shoulder, and_ Max has to try very hard to push away the feeling of bliss that follows. She swims in the sensation of two lovely women giving her attention. Being small and a goody-two-shoes makes your tolerance for booze and affection very low.

Max is a little drunk.

All bets are off. She’s destroyed a town, watched her friend pass out while driving, hallucinated about a dead girl, so why not fucking drink? What’s left to lose?

As Rachel so eloquently put it, it’s not like she has much sanity left to maintain.

Max is woken up out of her drunken stupor by Chloe’s self-deprecating words.

“Sorry you have to deal with me.” 

The light coming through the window is very bright, and so Max can only steal glances at the girl in front of her. But, the glass of whiskey on the rocks in her hand and the look of defeat on her face are enough to send guilt straight to Max’s stomach. 

“Chloe, I don’t have to _deal with you._ I want to be with you. I thought you knew that.”

There is a long pause. A hand runs through blue hair.

(How blue can fingertips actually get before they turn black and fall off?)

“I’ve—I’ve not been doing too good.”

Max nods, trying to keep her focus on Chloe who looks so sad.

“Yeah, I can kinda tell,” Max sighs (again because she can't relieve the pressure in her chest), brushing an imaginary strand of hair from her cheek. Chloe looks embarrassed. Maybe she thought she was hiding it better? But, it’s kind of difficult to convince the people who love you that you are fine when it looks like you’re always two seconds away from dying. 

“Uh, yeah. I don’t have my meds. It’s hard.”

There she goes talking about her medications again. What kind of medication? Chloe never mentioned any drugs besides weed, so Max is understandably at a loss. 

“Your meds? What do you mean?”

_Rachel makes herself known once again._

_“Don’t you remember that bottle of pills that you found in Chloe’s bathroom? Did it ever occur to you that she might actually need those? Or, maybe you were too busy being judgey to take her humanity into consideration.”_

Max shakes her head, rubs at her temple.

 _Rachel is no longer behind her. She is sitting on the chair by the window._  

_“Have you ever wondered why Chloe has started acting so weird? Have you ever wondered why she looks so sick and skinny? Have you ever thought about anything but yourself?”_

Max’s eyes drift around the room. They keep catching Rachel’s eyes. They always have a glint to them, and it makes Max’s head foggy. She can’t think, she can’t think—

“Max.” 

Max’s eyes finally meet Chloe’s.

“Huh?” 

“Are you even paying attention?” 

Chloe looks exhausted. The way her shoulders are slouching forward and her head is slightly dipped down makes her look five years older. Max feels guilty for wanting to glance in Rachel’s direction again.

“Uh—I’m, uh, I’m sorry—I’m having trouble concentrating—“

The exhaustion in her body becomes mixed with anger.

“Did you hear a fucking word I said?”

Her head is killing her, and Chloe’s raised voice makes it worse. She tries to meet her eyes, but the sun shining through the window forces her sensitive eyes down. She fixates on the bad 1980's duvet.

It’s not Chloe’s fault, it’s not Max’s fault. Rachel is just _intrusive_. She makes everything else fade and dim out, and she speaks so much louder than everyone else. It’s no wonder Max can’t concentrate. She can’t concentrate on anyone but the Girl Once Gone.

But, Chloe does not know this, so she takes her silence as rejection.

“ _Fuck you,_ Max!”

Max recoils, and this time, she is forced to look up at Chloe as tears prick at her eyes. She knows she should have said something, but she’s too chicken shit, and she knows she is, and now, her inability to focus has made Chloe resent her.

“ _Chloe has always resented you, Max,” Rachel says very matter-of-factly._

“I-I’m sorry, I—I didn’t, I didn’t—”

“What _ever_ , Max. You can’t even listen to me for _five goddamn minutes._ ”

“C-Chloe, I’m s-sorry, I just, I’m just—”

“No. _No._ Don’t even try to talk your way out this bullshit, Max.”

Of course, she’s angry. She just divulged sensitive information, and Max couldn’t get a grip long enough to hear it.

(But if Chloe could hear and see what is going on in her head, she wouldn’t blame her. Delusions can take over your entire mind, so it’s no wonder that Max is stuck in a tiny brain space where barely anything can pass through.)

Chloe stands like she’s about to storm out, but Max grabs her hand to stop her. 

“ _Fuck_ , _Chloe!_ ” Tears make her words sound thick and syrupy. “I’m so, so sorry. Please, _she’s_ making it so hard—I really don’t want it to be like this!”

The nuances of her words escape Chloe because alcohol makes everything more difficult, and she doesn’t catch Max’s reference to _her_.

“Yeah. Whatever. Obviously, this whole thing is a lie. You don’t actually give a fuck about me.”

Chloe snatches her hand away from Max’s. She grabs her handle of whiskey and leaves the room. The door slams.

_Oh, God._

(How does this always happen why does Chloe always leave like this why does Chloe always storm out why is this happening why why why why—)

Before, she had felt nothing. Now, she feels blue.

Max flops back on the bed, and she feels stupid/stupid/stupid. Why can’t she do anything right? Why does she always fuck up everything? Why, why, why, why?

(Her decisions don’t actually matter. Everything is the same. Everything is _the same_. It’s all pain and suffering and tears and alcohol-fueled fights, why does she even fucking try anymore?)

 _“Oh, Max.”_

She tilts her head and sees _Rachel sitting on the chair by the window._ Reluctantly, she sits upright again. Words start to fall out of her mouth.

“I-I didn’t mean to do that to Chloe.” 

 _Rachel leans forward. She has a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. She brings the cigarette to her lips and_ flick, flick, flicks _the lighter until she can breathe out thick smoke._

_“No, please don’t blame yourself. To be fair, I was doing a lot to distract you.”_

“But, why?”

_“I don’t know, Max. But, you do pay Chloe an awful lot of attention. Maybe I’m jealous.”_

“Jealous? But, you’re dead. How could you expect me to treat you better than Chloe?” 

_“I don’t look so dead, do I?”_

_Her hair of spun gold and eyes of aquamarine glitter and shine in the light of the late-afternoon sky. She certainly does not look dead._

“No.”

_“I could change that if you wanted.”_

Max doesn’t know what that means, but she sure as hell doesn’t want to find out.

“N-No, you don’t have to—”

_“Just making sure. You keep insisting that I’m dead, but I’m pretty sure both you and I know that I am very much alive and well.”_

She hears these words as if they are real, and she sees the girl like she is real, and she sees this motel room like it is real, but Max is not sure what is real and what is a lie. She blinks hard, presses the heels of her hands into her eye sockets once again, and lets out an exhausted sigh. 

“It doesn’t make _sense._ I saw you. I saw your body _in the ground_. You’re _dead_.”

_“Hmmm…” Rachel is sitting on the chair, smoking just like Chloe would be doing if she was there. Because she’s not really smoking anything, she doesn’t bother blowing the smoke out the window._

“Why are you doing this?” Max asks, exasperation apparent in all of her words. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

_Rachel sits up straight and plays with her hair with her free hand. She says everything very matter-of-factly as Rachel often does._

_“I’m here because you want me here, Max.”_

“I _don’t_ want you here. You’re making it hard to do anything at all. And, Chloe’s _mad at me_.”

_She shrugs, taking another drag and puffing out smoke._

_“Yeah, a lot of that is my fault. But, maybe that just means you should tell her about me.”_  

“No! No way am I doing that. I said I had a dream about you, and we got in a huge fight. She already is mad at me. I don’t need to make it worse.”

_“Doesn’t that tell you something?”_

Max’s body tenses. The words fall out of her mouth without her permission. It’s almost like she’s possessed. 

“Chloe can’t love me if she’s stuck on you.”

A hand flies to Max’s mouth, eyes wide. 

_“See, you’re learning.”_

“I didn’t mean to say that.”

_“No, but you know it’s true.”_

“I don’t—I don’t know if—“

_Rachel stands up, letting the cigarette fall to the carpet. She doesn’t even bother to stomp it out with her foot. If this were reality, the motel would have burst into flames, but sadly, it doesn’t. She walks closer._

Max feels herself stand, but she’s not sure why she is standing.

Maybe it’s the allure of Rachel Amber, the allure of mystery personified, that causes Max to do things without even her conscious mind being aware of it. After all, if she is hallucinating/bringing artifacts through time/going insane, standing without reason is probably the least of her problems.

_“You know, you both act mighty innocent for the shit you guys pulled.”_

“I know.”

_“I don’t think you do. You say it, but you’re really just hiding from the truth.” It’s interesting that there is no hint of anger when she speaks. Again, she is only expressing facts. “You avoid thinking about a lot of things. You don’t tell Chloe how you’re feeling. And, even though you think you’re processing all the death and destruction you left behind, you’re really not.”_

Max’s eyes look up from the carpet and meet Rachel’s. She almost can’t talk, but the words come out of her mouth anyway.

“I’ve done some things that I can’t speak.” 

_Rachel gives an understanding smile. She steps even closer._

_“I know it’s hard, Max. But, it will make you feel better if you just talk about it. Plus, everyone already knows what you did, so there’s no sense in keeping it to yourself.”_

Max’s breathing accelerates. She can’t tell if she’s panicking, or if it’s something else altogether. Rachel is right, but she doesn’t want to hear it. She does not want to think about all the things she did/all the destruction she allowed to happen/all of the people she let die. 

It is easier to say that Rachel Amber needs to leave her alone. It is easier to say that Rachel Amber was always the problem.

Why is every-fucking-thing always about Rachel Amber? 

“I tried to wash you away, but you _just won’t leave._ ” 

_Rachel has closed the space between them. Instead of being a figure drifting around the room, she is a real body in front of her. Her hands make their way to either side of Max’s face, crystal blue eyes piercing right into Max’s consciousness. Their faces are so close that their noses are almost touching._

_“So, won’t you take a breath and dive in deep?”_

Max’s breath catches in her throat. She can feel heat spreading over her cheeks. How could Rachel be so captivating? She hangs on every word she says. Just moments ago she was _angry_ at Rachel, but now her knees are weak and need wells in her stomach.

 _“Because I came here so you’d come for me._ ”

( _What a hypocrite._ ) 

Something inside of Max shifts and _she loses the ability to fight back. She leans forward and lets Rachel’s lips melt into hers. Her body becomes a million degrees warmer, especially when Max finds her hands around Rachel’s waist. One of Rachel’s hands cups the back of Max’s skull, pulling her in closer, deepening the kiss._

 _Max feels something that can only be described as unbridled euphoria. It is so intense that Max can’t even be sure that anything is real anymore. Her mind is so clouded with thick, white fog, that the idea that she is lip-locked with a dead girl doesn’t seem to phase her. A deep groan leaves the back of her throat, but she doesn’t even really hear herself make it. All she knows is that this is perfect—this is_ bliss _—this is the best feeling that she will ever have._

(Because, after all, when your brain releases copious amounts of neurotransmitters and activates neurons that should not normally fire, you experience some weird sensations.)

_Maybe this is why she feels herself fall to the ground, and then she feels that Rachel is on top of her, pinning her wrists to the ground, making sure that Max can’t move even if she wanted to._

_“I want to hear you say it, Max.”_

Max lets out a sound that could be considered a gasp. She can’t even open her eyes. 

 _“Max.”_

“R-Rachel, p-please—“

 _“Please, what, Max?_ ”

“I’m begging you—I’m begging you to—“ she takes a gasping breath, as if there is not enough air in the room, “I’m begging you to keep _haunting me_.”

_Rachel’s face blooms with a victorious smile, a flush on her pale cheeks._

_“Aw.”_

_She says this like it is not the most condescending thing on the planet, like Rachel had not just forced the words out of her mouth. Max looks up at Rachel with helpless eyes – unfocused, unseeing. Whether she misunderstands the expression or wants to continually devalue her existence, Rachel speaks again._

_“Don’t worry, Max. I’m never leaving you.”_

_Like a blast of warm air, that euphoria returns._  

(Like a motel room door opening on a hot autumn day, that euphoria returns.)

 _Max finds herself barely able to focus her eyes on blonde hair and blue eyes._  

(Max finds herself unable to focus on the flash of blue hair and blue eyes.)

Her vision cuts out.

 

* * *

 

Like the door opening on a hot autumn day, Chloe breezes into the motel room and sees Max passed out on the ground.

Her skin lights up in white-hot horror, and everything falls apart around her. 

“ _Holy shit_.”

Not Max. No, no, no. Not Max. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t—

( _This is how it was for her, you know. To see you passed the fuck out behind the wheel. How does it feel, huh? Not good, I bet._ )

Chloe rushes over, places her bottle of liquor down on the table, and crouches beside Max’s body. Check pulse. Slow, but present. She’s breathing because her chest rises and falls gently. Max seems to be okay, just unconscious, but the haunting question is _why?_  

There’s always been a sort of worry in the back of Chloe’s mind. Maybe Max is sick. Maybe these nosebleeds are a sign of a greater problem.

(Maybe the whole time travel thing is an elaborate hoax fabricated by a diseased brain. Misfiring neurons, inappropriate neurotransmitters. Who’s to say the whole thing isn’t just _fucking fake—_ ) 

No, no, no. Max proved it over and over and over again. Why is there still doubt even after everything turned out to be true?

Blood has dried on her upper lip. Blood is on the bed sheets.

(She bled and didn’t wipe it away? She bled and didn’t try to stop it?)

Chloe grits her teeth and grabs Max’s shoulders. 

“Max. You have to wake up _._ ”

At first, there is no response.

“ _Max._ You _have to wake up._ ”

She groans. Chloe sighs in relief.

The doe-eyed girl blinks once, twice, three times, but her eyes are still bleary, and she is not all there. 

“Chloe?”

“ _Shit_ , Max.”

“W-Where’s Rachel?” she slurs out, eyes not focusing on the girl in front of her.

Chloe’s breath catches.

“Huh?”

Max becomes more lucid, and she realizes her mistake.

“O-Oh, _shit_ , sorry.” 

Shaking fingers find their way to her nose. Max rubs at her face and dried blood flakes off.

“ _Oh, shit_ ,” she repeats again.

This is where Max realizes that she is in over her head. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Max. You gave me a fucking heart attack.”

Before Max can stop herself, she heaves out a heavy sob.

“ _Fuck._ I’m so, so s-sorry. I-I didn’t mean to do this—“

“What are you talking about? It’s okay,” Chloe whispers, running her fingers along Max’s hairline. She’s sweating.

Tears fall into Max’s ears. The look of fear and desperation resonates with Chloe probably more than it should. The girl looks like she's at her wits end.

“I—I just didn’t mean to cause a—a _fucking scene_ like this,” Max chokes out, sitting up and crying into one of her hands.

She's acting kind of weird, a little more intense than she usually does. Max is not one to overreact—that's Chloe's job—but she is a Grade A Mess complete with shaking and clutched fists. Max's head shakes, 'no, no, no,' but there's nothing for her to be disagreeing with.

“Fuck, _no._ Don’t worry about it. You’re going through _serious shit._ And, you're not even making a scene...” 

And that’s what she comes back. 

_“Yeah. Don’t fucking worry about it, Max. Everything’s going to be just fine.”_

Chloe is no longer hovering next to her. _It’s Rachel._

Max cries harder, feeling the world beginning to fall apart, piece-by-piece, around her.

_“Don’t worry.”_

_Fingers brush away a stray tear._ But, whose fingers?

_“Didn’t I say—“ a light kiss is placed on Max’s forehead._

Whose lips?

 _“—I’m never leaving you.”_   


	10. Gasoline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10: Gasoline — Max can’t wake up because this is not a dream; this is the reality that she chose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you insane like me?
> 
> (THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY HEAD)
> 
> (MAKEITSTOP)

Car ride, car ride.

The past few hours were a blur.

It was the whole, “Oh, God, are you alright,” and the, “Yes, yes, I am fine,” type deal. It’s all bullshit. Neither of them is alright. Why even bother?

Chloe insisted they leave.

Max wasn’t about to argue. She can barely keep her head on straight.

So here they are. On the road again. Driving, driving, driving. Passing town after town after town. Road signs, and hills, and oceans.

They thought it would be pretty and relaxing, but it is tense and maddening. They’ve been listening to the same three CDs over and over and over again.

But, it’s not like Max can hear over her pounding headache and Rachel fucking Amber.

_“Chloe’s still mad. Look at the creases in her eyebrows.”_

Max glances at Chloe but does not say anything because what’s she going to do? Start talking to herself? She doesn’t need to be thrown in the loony bin just yet. Instead, she gives a small shrug, barely big enough for anyone but the voice in her head to notice.

But, it’s not just a voice in her head. She feels Rachel’s presence, but she can’t exactly see her. She’s not squeezed between them, and she’s not on Max’s lap—

_“Although, you’d like that, huh?”_

She’s just sort of _everywhere._

Okay, but actually, Max is getting pretty annoyed by the peanut gallery. It’s very difficult to do anything when she’s constantly trying to stop her mind from drifting to the dark recesses of her psyche. And, surprisingly, there are many terrible ways her mind’s been drifting lately.

(— _Thousands of dead bodies scattered on the beach like whales—_

_—Blood and guts spilled on the linoleum of a Diner destroyed—_

_—Chloe’s frozen look of terror as a bullet pierces her skull—_

_—Rachel’s decaying body rising from the dead_ —

_—Rachel pinning Max over Mark Jefferson’s desk, a hand shoved down the front of Max’s jeans—_

_—Chloe’s eyes staring up from between Rachel’s legs—_

_—Rachel and Chloe’s mouths mashed together like two desperate hormonal teenagers—_

_—Mark Jefferson with his hands around her throat—)_

( _THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY HEAD)_

_(MAKEITSTOP MAKEITSTOP **MAKEITSTOP** )_

Max presses her fingers between her eyebrows because her headache is excruciating.

“Max, your nose—”

She wakes out of her trance to find that blood is dripping down her chin.

 _Shit._ Not again.

“Fuck,” Max groans, reaching for the towel they stole from the last motel they were at. She had figured it’d come in handy.

“Uh, that’s like the third nose bleed you’ve had today. How much blood have you got to lose?” Chloe’s tone makes it sounds like she’s joking, but she’s really not.

“Ten pints,” Max responds flatly, pressing the scratchy fabric to her face. It’s not like it’s not true.

“Ha _ha_. Then, you’d be dead, Caulfield.”

_“Yes. Max would be dead. Would that be so bad?”_

“Would that be so bad?”

Rachel’s words sound clunky coming out of Max’s mouth. Chloe is forced silent for a moment. The comment must have seemed darker to Chloe than it did to Max because she doesn’t speak for quite a while. 

“Dude, you’re scaring me a little.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

_“Then, what did you mean?”_

Max isn’t entirely sure. Rachel made her say it. Why is she asking her? 

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

Chloe’s words jar her. She removes the towel from her nose. She may or may not have forgotten that Chloe can’t hear _her_ voice. It was a momentary slip, but it was a major slip nonetheless.

“I, uh—I don’t know why I’m...like this.” These words are also clunky, but it’s only because she is having a hard time recovering from such a mistake. She used to be so good at words and now she’s struggling to form coherent sentences. 

“Like _what?_ ” Chloe is getting impatient.

“I don’t know. _Sad?_ ” Max says as she runs a hand through her bangs. “Sad isn’t even the right word. I’m just—“ 

“A mess? Yeah, I can tell.” 

Her tone alone is enough to make Max recoil.

 _“Wow, that’s no way to talk to someone who saved your fucking life.”_ _The smugness of Rachel’s voice does not portray the sympathy that her words imply. “Chloe’s got some balls.”_

Max wonders why Rachel doesn’t know this already. Of course, Chloe has some semblance of bravado. That’s all she has left.

She wants to throw a fit, shove in her face the fact that she would not exist without her, but Max cannot do that. She wants to, but she can’t. And, she’s not sure what’s holding her back.

“ _Chloe._ That’s pretty unfair.”

“Oh, yeah. Boo hoo, poor Max.” Her hands grip the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turn white. “I’m so misunderstood because I’m a little sad girl with mystical powers, yet I’m still too self-absorbed to give a fuck about what anyone else is going through.”

Her words feel like a literal punch to the gut. This is not the first time in the past day that Max has felt assaulted by Chloe’s words. 

She feels guilty, oh God, she feels _so guilty_. She doesn’t need it pushed in her face that she fucked up. She knows, she knows, she knows. She knows that she can’t do a goddamn thing right. Her mind keeps telling her and telling her and telling her. She’s trying so hard to be there for Chloe but nothing is working, nothing is working, her head is _not working_ —

_“She’s not wrong. You’re a fuck up, Maxine.”_

Normally, Max would be able to handle just a minor taunt from her inner mantra, but the combination of Chloe’s anger and Rachel’s voice makes her restless.

Words start to spill out.

“You act like—like I don’t _know that_. I fucking know I’m a selfish piece of shit, like, why do you have to keep reminding me? Ugh, I didn’t even—I didn’t even mean for all this to happen. It just happened, and when I tried to stop it, it made it worse, and there’s just no good option. There’s no good option—“

Something Max said must have struck a nerve because, instead of softening her tone, Chloe escalates.

“Don’t even try that bullshit on me, Max. This is why I didn’t want to talk to you about it in the first place. You always pull out some stupid excuse for why you’re treating me like a damn child, and then I’m supposed to accept it because—what?—you’re some kind of fucking time wizard? No one buys that crap, Max. You’re only fooling yourself. You tell yourself that you do everything to help other people when in reality, you’re just a _manipulative bitch_.”

The last insult is a knife in her chest.

Max’s face visibly pales. She’s only been called such things by the Cool Girls of Blackwell, Rachel Amber, and Max Number Two. Hearing these sentiments expressed by the one person she trusts more than anyone in the world is enough to make her feel sick.

Then, she gets a headache. Sudden. Throbbing. Painful.

Keeping her composure is hard when she just has to deal with reality, but throw a little physical pain and some psychological abnormalities in there, and you get a mess of a girl.

She tries to stop them, but tears stream down Max’s cheeks.

_“You crybaby. You knew all this stuff was true before. What’s different now?”_

“I-I’m s-sorry,” Max chokes out, hands covering her eyes.

Chloe tenses.

Yeah.

She’s crossed a line. Majorly. The one person in her entire life that would destroy an entire fucking town to keep her alive is the one that she’s hurling insults at. Her hands somehow tighten their grip on the steering wheel.

(How does she live with herself?)

Guilt sets in. She shouldn’t have gone there, but she let her childish anger consume her, and now Max is fucking crying in the seat next to her. 

Good choices have not been made.

“Shit,” Chloe mutters because Max is _sobbing._ It’s kind of like how it was after she found her lying on the ground. Just tears, tears, tears.

(Max never used to cry like that, and she certainly hasn’t cried much in their more recent times together. So, why is this happening? Yes, Chloe may have been way too harsh, but Max has always had tough skin, unlike herself. What’s changed?) 

Chloe can’t shake the feeling that something, other than the obvious, is wrong.

“ _Man,_ I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t mean to be so—so savage. That was pretty fucking mean.” She scratches her head, moves blue bangs from her eyes. She places a hand on Max’s thigh, which makes the girl jump in her seat. “I know you’re trying. I’m just being a testy bitch because I’m tired and fucking hungry.”

Max seems strangely comforted by Chloe’s hand because her sobs turn into sniffs and small hiccups. She rubs at her eyes, rubs at the bit of blood on her upper lip. 

“No, I—uh—“

_“Chloe’s right about you. You are right about Chloe.”_

“I’m sorry,” Max says. She’s about to rest her hand on Chloe’s, but instead, she rests it against her own forehead. Her skin is clammy and sweaty, and Max feels a little dizzy. “Y-You’re right. I make excuses. I manipulate people. It’s not okay.”

Almost as if Chloe wasn’t expecting her to own up to her actions, she turns to look at Max.

And boy, she does not look good.

(Has Max always had those dark circles? Does she always look so bleary-eyed, even in the middle of the day? Is her skin always so dull, so without color? Does her back always hunch like that? Does she always have this look of despair plastered on her face?)

Chloe wishes she knew more about Max, but Max hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with information about her thoughts and feelings, less so in the past few days.

The crushing idea that ( _something is wrong_ ) hits her again, but as usual, Chloe pushes the thought to the back of her head. Can’t actually think about anything that _may_ _have consequences._

“I just shouldn’t have said those things. Ugh, sorry. I’m the one who needs a reality check here.”

Max tries her best to not let her mind stray.

_“You expect to be able to keep this up?”_

She shakes her head, tries again.

“If it’s okay, I’d like to hear what you said before. I’ll focus this time. I’m sorry. I want to be there for you and support you.”

Chloe takes a big breath, and her hands grip the wheel so tight that Max wonders if her fingers might fall off.

“I—“ 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want.”

“N-No, I want to.”

Chloe takes a deep breath, and all her words fall out at once as if she has been holding her breath for the past year.

“I’m making myself throw up.”

Max feels herself jerk in her seat. She lets out an involuntary, “Huh?”

“I mean,” Chloe starts again, sucking in the breath she let out moments ago, “I am forcing myself to vomit multiple times a day because I have no other way of coping with the world other than to totally self-destruct.”

Max’s hand goes to her mouth.

_“You’re a fucking idiot.”_

“I’m a fucking idiot.”

This catches Chloe off guard.

“What?”

“I—I should have known—”

“How would you have known? I’ve been purposely hiding it from you,” Chloe says, chuckling with a certain amount of confusion and disdain. This is not how she expected the conversation to go and it rubs her the wrong way.

“I’m just—”

Max tries to speak, but _Rachel keeps interrupting._

 _“You couldn’t pay attention to anyone but yourself for five seconds, could you, Max? All you can do is think about yourself. You could have helped Chloe, but instead, you’re stuck on_ yourself _—”_

She tries again. “—I’m so sorry.”

Chloe laughs.

“It’s not your fault. It’s been a problem for a while.”

_“It’s actually my fault,” Rachel says, what little amusement in her voice fading into what could be described as sorrow._

“Huh?”

Chloe doesn’t realize that Max is reacting to the voices in her head and not her.

“I mean, after you left and I got close to Rachel, we started doing some not so great things.” Her hand brushes through her hair, and she is specifically not making eye contact. “Ten out of ten would not recommend.” 

“So, Rachel also—”

“Y-Yeah, she was bulimic, and then, I caught her, and then I—”

Max freezes. She knows where this is going already. She doesn’t even have to listen.

How?

_Oh, God._

Who is this Rachel inside her head? Is it a real Rachel? How does she know these things before Max does? 

(Is this real? Is this a dream? How is she supposed to wake up?)

“ _Jesus,_ Chloe.”

“I tried the Jesus thing. Didn’t work out.”

Leave it to Chloe to make light of a bad situation.

“Ha ha.” Max is actually not amused, as usual. This is a lot for her to process, and a part of her thinks that maybe this would be a good time to confess that she’s made out with a hallucination of Chloe’s former lover— 

“Anyway. That’s what I wanted to tell you,” Chloe says. “And, yeah, I’m still kinda pissed you didn’t listen to me the first time, but I know you’re also going through shit, so I guess, I can’t really judge.” 

On second thought, maybe this isn’t the right time. 

“Sorry,” Max sighs, her hand making its way up to her forehead again. “I’ve been super spaced out lately.”

“Yeah, you have.” 

“Thanks,” she chuckles, annoyance tingeing her tone slightly.

“I’m just being honest!” One of Chloe’s hands flies up in the air in exasperation. “You look like hell, and I’m kind of worried.”

Max’s head dips back and thumps against the back of the seat.

“I’m just really tired.”

“Aren’t we all?”

Max turns to see Chloe grinning at her.

“Keep your eyes on the road.” 

“Yes, sir, Captain Max.” 

Well, all things considered, that discussion could have gone a lot worse. It wasn’t great, but it was better than Max had been expecting. Her focus turns to the side of the road where a small town approaches. There are stores lined up in an old strip mall.

“Hmm, maybe we should grab some stuff. We really need to charge our phones…” Chloe trails off, her eyes glancing between the road signs and the cars in the other lanes.

Max isn’t able to formulate her thoughts quickly enough. Chloe is already pulling off the exit and driving towards the stores. She sucks in a breath as they pull into the parking lot and park the car.

A cell phone charger is _the last_ thing Max wants to think about.

( _Oh, Jesus. How many people have tried to contact me? Mom? Dad? Anyone from Arcadia Bay?)_

( _No one from Arcadia Bay?_ )

(Which Is Worse? No one? Everyone? Which is Worse?)

_“They both fucking suck,” Rachel chimes in as she opens the door for Max, who had just been staring blankly at Chloe for a moment. “But, I guess you should have thought of that before you killed everyone.”_

_She shrugs as though the words hold no emotional weight at all._

They don’t, right?

Maxine Caulfield is a murderer. That is a fact. We’ve been over this.

She opens her mouth, and the words die on her lips. She opens her mouth, and the words die on her lips. She opens her mouth and—

“Hey, dude, are you sure you’re okay?” Chloe asks, and Max almost shouts out the wrong answer, but she catches herself in time.

“Yeah, I just—I just don’t want to charge my phone.”

Chloe frowns, looking at the convenience store through the dashboard of her truck. She chews her lips nervously. It’s actually a bit funny because Chloe, although a nervous person, usually doesn’t show her nervousness outwardly. Now that Max thinks about it, maybe the way she fussed with her hair was also a nervous tick.

“Okay, I get that. But, _I_ want to charge my phone. And get some cigarettes.”

Max can’t help but steal a glance at her blue-tinged fingertips before responding.

“ _You_ can get a charger. I don’t care.”

The blue haired girl lets out a huff that is not exasperated or angry, just tired. Her eyes find their way over to the liquor store just two doors down.

“If only we could get booze, too.”

Almost as if a light bulb goes on over Max’s head, her eyes light up.

“Let’s get some booze.”

Chloe is visibly shocked at this recommendation.

“What?” she dramatically gasps, a hand flying to her chest in faux repulsion. “You, Max Caulfield, want to attain an alcoholic beverage—which might I add is illegal at our current age—and consume it with the sole intent of getting ripped?”

Max laughs, throwing her head back. Chloe can’t help but think that she laughs like Rachel.

“I’ve never heard you sound so intelligent about drinking.”

“I’m just…surprised, I guess.”

“Yeah, well,” Max says, sighing in resignation.

Max is acting _so weird_. It’s like someone else is talking for her. It is very strange. But, what hadn’t been strange the past few days?

The stagnant, hot autumn air flows through the open car doors. Chloe feels sweat drip down the side of her face.

“Ok-aaayy, well, how do you plan on buying alcohol? I mean, I _had_ a fake before I lost it. And I know you’re not like me, breaking the law and shit, so you probably don’t have one—”

“Oh, uh, I have a plan, but you aren’t going to like it.”

Chloe’s brows furrow.

“Huh?”

Max pushes Chloe’s shoulder lightly.

“Just go get your stuff. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“Pfft, _a jiffy?_ Did you rewind to the 1850’s without telling me?” Chloe laughs while getting out and slamming the door shut.

“Yep. You guessed it,” Max smirks, exiting the truck as well. _Rachel closes the door behind her_.

Chloe waves her off and walks into the convenience store, feeling pretty good for once because she hasn’t seen Max that good-humored in a while.

Since The Storm, actually.

As Chloe is buying a carton of cigarettes with the Handicap Fund, she doesn’t let herself think how (Max’s irregularity in mood is concerning, considering Max has never been one to be very outwardly emotional, and she has always been even-keeled.) She can’t help but think ( _something is wrong_ ).

She leaves the store with her cigarettes and a phone charger in a small plastic bag. Since she is interested as to how Max thinks she can get alcohol, Chloe is a tad surprised to see that she is already sitting in the truck. As she approaches, she notices that Max seems to be mouthing something, as if she’s talking to someone, but there’s no one in the car with her. But, when she notices Chloe, she stops. Maybe she was singing to herself, or reading, or something. 

(SOMETHING IS WRONG)

Chloe gets in the truck, and the door shuts behind her. 

“So, uh, whaddya get?”

Max looks from Chloe’s blue eyes down to the two bottles of pink champagne at Max’s feet.

“Would you buy a hundred-dollar bottle of champagne like me?”

A large grin covers Max’s features. She looks so _proud_ of herself. It’s like she just figured out the answer to the universe and everything. Chloe does not understand, but she does understand alcohol.

“Dude! This is awesome! How the hell did you get these?” She reaches over and picks up one of the bottles by its neck. Being careful not to show off to the world the contraband she holds in her hands, Chloe balks. Not only is it actually champagne, they are indeed one-hundred dollar bottles. “Holy shit. You weren’t kidding.”

“No, I told you that I had a plan.”

“I have to say, I’m hella impressed,” Chloe says, putting the bottle back down by Max’s feet. She turns and grabs Max’s arm in excitement. “Well, spill! How’d you buy those without them carding you?”

For a second, Max just sits there was an amused look on her face, her eyes staring vacantly past Chloe. Then, that weird, self-assured smile cracks again, and Chloe feels a bit unsettled.

“Well, I didn’t exactly _buy_ them—”

“Wait, so you stole them? Without getting caught?”

She offers a shrug.

“You can’t get caught if you were never in there.” 

There is a beat of silence before Max begins to laugh. It starts as a small giggle until it swells into a laugh that pours out her mouth and covers the interior of the car and makes Chloe’s skin clammy. She’s laughing and laughing like someone had just told the best goddamn joke. It takes Chloe a moment to understand what has just happened.

She just blinks. 

“You used your rewind?”

Her laughter dies down to leave a wild look in her eyes, and it is so unlike Max that it sends a shiver down Chloe’s spine.

“Yeah, that’s the part of it you weren’t going to like.”

Red hot anger swells in Chloe's chest. How could she rewind? How could she rewind for something _so stupid?_ She said alcohol would have been nice, but she didn’t want Max to possibly risk messing up her brain/another town just so they could get wasted.

“Dude! You promised you wouldn’t.”

Chloe sees a flash of desperation run through Max’s eyes and, in that instant, she could almost read her mind.

( _Who the fuck cares/I need this/I need to drown myself in this/I don’t care about anything anymore/Please shut up/Please shut up/Please. Shut. Up—_ )

“What else is there to do? Nothing else helps.”

Max turns away, wiping away the tiny bit of blood that threatened to drip from her nose. Chloe doesn’t even know how to respond, or what she even means, so she doesn’t say anything. She puts the keys into the ignition and drives to another ( _goddamn motherfucking_ ) hotel.

 

* * *

 

They sit in silence on the drive back, sit in silence on the hotel sheets.

“Well?” Chloe says, motioning to the unopened bottles on the table. They don’t even care enough to put it on ice. “Are we gonna drink it or what?”

She is obviously annoyed that Max would go to such lengths to just get alcohol, and she makes it known with a sharp tone that cuts through the air. For once, Max doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah.” Max gets up and grabs the bottle, looking at the cage and the cork. “Uhh, how are you supposed to open these things?”

Chloe shrugs. “Don’t look at me. I don’t drink anything that can’t be opened with a churchkey.” This seems to be another dig at Max’s expensive choice of drinks, but it doesn’t phase her.

Instead, she twists open the wire, and slips off the cage, making sure to keep her thumb over the cork. With small twists, the cork comes out with a satisfying _pop!_

Chloe watches this happen, jumps when the cork comes out, squints when the champagne doesn’t spray out of the bottle.

“I thought you said you didn’t know how to open it.”

Max looks up from the bottle, wild-eyed as she had been back in the car. 

She mumbles something to the effect of, “Took a couple of tries…” but it’s too quiet for Chloe to hear.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Max sits down on the scratchy bed sheets. Unlike times in the past, Max readily brings the bottle to her lips.

Her face contorts into a look of disgust. “It’s so sweet,” she groans, shoving the bottle in Chloe’s face. “Try it.”

She does, taking the bottle, pressing it to her lips, and tipping her head back. Max is right — that shit is sweet. Delicious. Tastes like candy. Chloe takes another swig. Max takes the bottle back and has her own drink. She seems to have a similar reaction as the first time, mouth pursed and eyes squinting. She coughs into her hand but drinks again, this time for a longer period of time.

“Ugh,” Max grunts when she’s done, passing it back to Chloe.

Each time Chloe gets it back, she notices that Max looks a little bit more ill. Her skin is so pale, it looks like she might float away. Or barf. One of the two.

“You okay?” Chloe asks, taking a generous sip.

“Just peachy,” Max grunts. She is seemly distracted by the champagne in Chloe’s hand. In fact, so distracted that she grabs the bottle back and immediately begins to – for lack of a better term – chug it.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Chloe rips the bottle from Max’s grip and holds it away from her, a hand stretched out in front of her face. Max thinks it's funny that Chloe looks like she’s about to rewind. “Slow down, Mad Max. What the fuck?”

“What?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

(SOMETHINGISWRONG)

“Nothing’s wrong. I don't know, I just want to get drunk.”

“With that much apathy, you would think something just might be wrong.” 

Max shoots Chloe a look. Can Chloe not be sarcastic for once in her goddamn life?

Probably not.

“It’s one thing to get drunk, and it’s another to chug a bottle of champagne. You’re not a heavy drinker, and I don’t want to see you, y’know, barf everywhere.”

“Fair enough,” Max sighs.

“Here.” Chloe gets up and runs to the bathroom, grabbing two plastic cups wrapped in cellophane. She hands Max the bottle, unwraps the cups, and pushes them towards Max. “Well, what’re you waiting for? Fill’er up.” 

She does, watching pink liquid bubble as it fills cheap plastic.

“Nothing like drinking expensive champagne in hotel water cups,” Max quips, setting down the bottle on the ground and bringing the cup to her lips.

“My aesthetic.” Chloe notices that Max is about to drink, and she waves her hand. “No, nuh-uh, we gotta cheers first.”

Max’s tired stare is softened by the alcohol she’s consumed. “Cheers to what?”

Chloe's hand goes to her chin, and she makes a small humming sound to indicate that she’s thinking. “Oh! I know.” Chloe puts her cup in the air. “To California. I never thought that this place could feel like home, but you’re getting me there, Max.”

Max’s cheeks flush the same shade of pink as the champagne. 

“To California.”

The plastic doesn’t even make a _clinking_ sound when the cups tap together, but it still tastes sweet going down.

 

* * *

 

One bottle down and Max is feeling kind of light headed. She's sitting on the bed and watching the news on low volume. Chloe seems less phased since her tolerance is a bit higher, but with how little she weighs, she must be _some_ _sort of_ _drunk_. Even so, she looks nervous. Her fingers tap the desk she’s sitting at, watching the TV but not really watching it. Max is doing the same, but she watching Chloe more than the news. 

“You okay?” Max asks. She notices that her speech is slowed. She’s never been this drunk in her life, and she isn’t even that drunk.

Max’s voice wakes Chloe up out of whatever she was thinking about. Her head snaps to Max’s direction. 

“Oh, yeah. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing.” She stands up and grabs her pack of cigarettes. “I’m going to go smoke. Wanna come with?”

“No,” Max sighs. “I’m feeling pretty beat.”

Chloe takes a cigarette and puts it between her lips. “Suit yourself.” And, she walks through the door and out of the room.

With a deep breath, Max flops back on the bed. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Chloe’s phone light up, turning on for the first time in several days. She rolls over and pretends like that’s not happening.

_“Are we having second thoughts, Max?”_

She groans, letting her eyes fall to _the girl laying next to her. They are face to face._

“No.”

 _“Of course not.” Rachel sits up, holds up her hands, and hooks her fingers to make air quotes. “’Chloe’s all that matters to me. Chloe is the number one priority.’”_  

Max sits up too, her eyebrows knitted together. 

“That’s all still true.”

 _“Then, why do you feel so damn guilty?"_  

“I don’t feel—” 

 _“You’re trying to tell me that you don’t_ feel guilty? _You can’t even charge your damn phone because you’re too afraid to see who won’t text you back!”_

Max crosses her arms, looking away from Rachel.

“Okay. Maybe I’m feeling a little bad about it.”

_“Right. ‘A little bad,’ because that would be enough to bring me around to talk some sense into you.”_

“Sense?” Max laughs, reluctantly looking back at _Rachel’s bright eyes._ “If anything you’re talking sense _out of me!_ ”

_“Okay. Whatever. Drown yourself in alcohol for all I care.”_

Rachel does have a point. Max is obviously having these emotions, and ignoring them is making it worse. This leads her to believe that Rachel is here for a reason. Her brain isn’t exactly working at full capacity, but she is seeing some common themes in Rachel's speech.

_“You should tell Chloe about me.”_

“Why?”

_“You can’t keep me a secret.”_

“I can try.”

 _“You can’t win against me, Max. I have more control over you than you realize.”_  

Max looks away from her. Her heart skips a beat.

_“Ohh, was that exciting to hear? So does Max like to be taken advantage of a little bit?” She grins, flashing perfectly straight, pearly white teeth. “Did you like that kiss the other day?”_

You would think by Rachel’s commentary that Max is some sexually repressed mess of a teenager. 

“Shut up.”

_“Hm, seems I struck a nerve. I mean, I can lay off, but I can tell you don’t really want me to.”_

Did she want Rachel to lay off? That’s the real question. She vaguely remembers saying that she wants to be haunted, but that could have been a dream.

_“You have a pair of hands. Also, Chloe would be perfectly happy to help you out with that—“_

Hands press against eyes, and Max hisses, “ _Shut up._ ”

_“Wow. For someone who thinks a lot about sex, you sure don’t want to think about sex.”_

When her hands drop from her eyes, there are tears.

“ _Please_ , please, please shut up.”

_“Aw, Max. You don’t need to beg.”_

Max desperately wonders how to get her to stop talking.

She gets up and makes her way over to the desk where the other bottle of champagne is sitting. Max twists open the cage, but she is not careful, and the cork fires out and launches itself off the wall, and it smashes into the lamp, and glass falls to the floor, and—

 

 

 

…

She rewinds.

Taking a deep breath, Max removes the cork slowly and carefully. It pops out but with much less force.

_“Damn. You think you would have learned your lesson the first time.” Rachel frowns, standing up and walking over to her. “And, don’t you think it’s a little worrisome that you’re abusing your rewind again?”_

She shakes her head, forcing air through pursed lips and pouring champagne into another plastic cup.

“Leave me alone.” Max brings the cup to her lips and downs it as quickly as she can.

 _“Getting plastered isn’t going to help you, Max.” This is the first time that she has heard Rachel cross. “C’mon! Just tell Chloe about me, and she can_ help you. _”_

“No.” 

Max recorks the champagne with a bit of struggling and puts the cage back on. Hopefully, Chloe won’t notice that she broke into the other bottle already. She sits back on the bed, and as if on queue, Chloe walks back into the room. She looks a lot less nervous, but maybe that’s because Max looks hella nervous.

“Whoa, dude,” Chloe says, eyes wide at Max’s red, watering eyes and gaunt expression. “What the hell happened when I was gone?”

 _“Okay, so you’re just going to lie, huh?”_  

“I threw up.”

Both Chloe’s and _Rachel’s_ eyes widen.

_“Oh, Max, that’s a low fucking blow.”_

The blue-haired girl sighs and rolls her eyes. “See? I told you not to chug that shit. It’s got loads of sugar in it. Stuff makes me hungover as shit.”

Max’s hand rubs over her sweating forehead. Funnily enough, rewinding seems to give her the symptoms of being physically ill anyway, so this lie was a good one.

“I think I’m going to go to bed.”

Chloe sets her pack of cigarettes next to the bottle of champagne. She doesn’t remember to look at the bottle or her phone because she’s focused on Max.

“Okay, well…” Chloe looks at the clock. It’s around 10 pm anyway. “Yeah, I guess I could try to sleep too. I am kinda tired.”

Max smiles (because she got away with it). They both take off their jeans and flop into bed, not even bothering to turn the TV off. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take long before they’re both asleep.

 

* * *

 

Not surprisingly, sleep does not last long. At least, not for Max.

It’s weird; Chloe was always the one complaining about insomnia, but Max’s eyes pop open at 1:24 am, and butterflies flutter in her chest.

She knows the feeling well — anxiety. It’s something she’s always struggled with, but this past few weeks have been especially trying. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another, one horrible situation after another. It all burned into her brain and convinced her body that it always had to be in a state of terror. After all, who knows if Jefferson may suddenly appear and try to kill her one more time?

Or, more likely, when is Rachel going to pop up again and make her life a living hell?

(Probably sooner rather than later.)

_1:27 am._

The light of the TV flickers against the walls.

Max has made the decision that she is not sleeping anymore. She slips out of bed and glances guiltily at Chloe’s sleeping form. She doesn’t want to have Chloe waking up, mostly because she knows Chloe doesn’t sleep much but also because Max doesn’t need anyone else fueling her anxiety right now.

Almost as if she’s in a trance, she wonders over to the desk and picks up the bottle by the neck. She doesn’t bother to grab a cup. She looks at the TV, looks at Chloe, looks at the clock.

 _1:28 am._  

Next thing she’s aware of, she’s sitting on the bathroom floor with the door shut. Max struggles to get the bottle open again because she’s still kind of drunk, but eventually, the cork comes off with not much sound at all.

Good thing, too, because she doesn’t need Chloe walking in on her self-destruction. 

She takes a swig from the bottle. She tilts her head and then tilts the bottle and the alcohol dribbles onto her bare legs. She forgot to put on her jeans. Oh well.

She takes a swig from the bottle. She tilts the bottle over the bathtub.

Max watches as pink liquid pours from the mouth of the bottle and into the tub. It’s satisfying to watch something so expensive, so material, so useless just disappear down the drain. But, she still wants to continue to indulge, so she holds out her hand and—

 

 

 

 

…

Max watches pink liquid reverse it’s stream back into the bottle. A smile tugs at her cheeks. It’s satisfying to have control over time when she has control over nothing else. 

( _This actions will have consequences_.)

Yes, yes, yes. Everything has consequences, but Max has just stopped caring. She’s not even really sure if this is real or if this is some grand hallucination cooked up by a broken mind.

Instead of letting herself think, Max presses the bottle to her lips and lets sweet poison pour down her throat.

It’s good, it’s good. It burns a bit, but it’s good.

Isn’t that true of anything? No matter what you do, something unfortunate is bound to result. You can drink a bottle of champagne, but you might get sick, or you might fall down and smash your head open.

( _This action will have consequences.)_

Pour liquor down the fucking drain and watch how men and women and sons and daughters sob over (wasted alcohol.)

( _Yeah_ , _you’re so righteous—so holier than thou—because you don’t have a fucking hang-up, right?_ )

( _She obviously has a hang-up.)_

Fuck fuck fuck.

**_Fuck._ **

“People are whispering about me.”

Truth/truth/truth.

What is truth now?

What even is truth?

When you can bend time and space at your whim, what even is truth?

( _Truth is what you make of it._ )

_“No one is whispering about you, Maxine.”_

Oh, yeah. Okay, so the voices in her head are going to deny that she’s hearing this shit. Cool. Fun. Amazing. So totally helpful and believable.

“These voices won’t leave me alone.”

_“Aw. What voices?”_

( _Hahahahahaha._ )

Max presses her hands against her ears and cringes. How can she make it stop? Does it stop? What can she do? What can she do? Rachel fucking Amber won’t leave her the fuck alone. How does she make her go away?

How does she make it stop?

More alcohol, more alcohol. The mouth of the bottle presses against her lips and it burns at her throat, taints her mind.

_“You’re going to die.”_

“I’m going to die.”

_“Might as well drink yourself to death.”_

“Hmm.”

Max gets up off the floor and stumbles to the sink, setting down her bottle of champagne and staring at herself.

_Rachel takes the bottle in her hand and takes a long swig._

_“Very tasty,” she comments, wiping her mouth with her hand._

She lets her eyes travel to look at _the girl standing next to her. She is giving Max a look that makes_ her _uncomfortable. It’s predatory. It’s frightening._

(Her mind goes to the first time she “meets” Rachel, and it is the same expression.)

“I’m sorry.”

 _“What are you apologizing for?” Rachel frowns, putting the bottle on the counter with an awkward_ thunk!

The words came out without her permission. She’s not sure why she’s sorry, so she makes something up.

“I-I’m a wreck. Gotta go out there, and Chloe’s out there, and I’m a fucking wreck.”

_“Well, if you knew you were going to have to placate to Chloe, why chug half a bottle of champagne?”_

Max looks exasperated. She grasps the neck of the bottle and balks.

“Why? Because you’re _fucking with me_. I can’t concentrate. The only way I can stay sane is to—“

_“Drink?” Rachel laughs, head tilting back, blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. When she brings her head back up, her piercing gaze feels like a physical pain in Max’s head. “It seems like you’re deflecting. I don’t think it’s my fault all this is happening.”_

Max wants to respond, but her headache is excruciating. She looks away from Rachel and catches her own worried glance in the mirror.

She’s got to go back.

Without thinking, her hand flies out in front of her and time peels back and—

And, for a second, everything stops.

 

 

 

 

…

Champagne that had been lost due to waste or hallucinations has come back and the bottle is half full again, and Max unceremoniously slams the bottle back on the counter.

Rachel does not speak. Max’s mind is quiet. The only sound is the TV echoing through the door. But, she still is fixed on her tired blue eyes/her tired blue eyes/her tired blue eyes—

 **_Are you insane like me?_ **

_“Insane is giving you too much credit.”_

_Rachel can only be silenced for a moment._

But, it’s true. It’s not like she has anything to actually complain about, to be sad/mad about. Maxine Caulfield is simply just a disaster.

A disaster. _A disaster._

Did you hear? Max Caulfield is a disaster.

(MAXCAULFIELDISA _FUCKINGDISASTER_ )

_YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIE_

She coughs and sputters, and bright red blood falls from her lips and into the sink. She keeps coughing and coughing until eventually she vomits, and it is all bright crimson, and Max watches in terror as she colors the hotel sink red.

( _This is what you get for rewinding, **you fucking whore.**_ )

_“This is revenge for letting everyone die.”_

( _This is revenge for abusing this power._ )

Max’s hand reaches out, but she bangs against an imaginary wall, the one that tells her that she is at the end of her ropes.

 _“Stop trying to rewind!” Rachel growls, grabbing Max’s shoulder and spinning her around so their eyes lock. “You’re_ killing _yourself.”_

“Then, leave me alone!” Max yells, venom in her words.

_“Yeah, good idea. Scream so that Chloe knows you’re fucking insane.”_

“I am insane,” she snarls, taking the bottle in her hand and slamming it on the floor so it bursts apart and pink liquid sprays both _Rachel_ and Max.

A yelp is heard outside the bathroom door, and Chloe barges in, and her eyes are wide with horror, and Max outstretches her hand, and with all the power she has left in her, Chloe walks in reverse out the door, and the bottle reforms and leaps onto the counter, and Max—

 

 

 

 

…

—grabs the bottle and drinks more.

It’s all falling apart. It’s all falling apart.

Tears run down her cheeks. They fall and mix with the blood in the sink.

The edges of her vision are fuzzy. She feels like she might pass out. Fortunately, before that can happen,  _Rachel takes the opportunity to grab her chin and force Max to look at her._

_Her eyes are still so radiant, even though she looks so sad._

_“Max,” she murmurs, pulling her in so her breath is hot against Max’s ear. There is a brief pause, like Rachel’s words are the ones that are caught for a change. “You shouldn’t waste your pretty face like me.”_

Max pushes her away, but _Rachel catches her arm._ She’s surprised when she can’t move because if this isn’t real then why can’t she move?

Words fall desperately from Max’s mouth. Fear pours from her eyes.

“How do I wake up?” she begs, pleads.

_Malice glosses over Rachel's normally bright eyes._

_Like a different person has inhabited her body, she pushes Max to her knees, grabbing her hair and forcing her head back. Alcohol is poured down her throat._

Max chokes and sputters. She tries to struggle, but she _can’t move._ She doesn’t understand how this is happening. If Rachel is not real, then why can’t Max stop the feeling that she’s drowning?

_Words fall heavy and sharp from Rachel’s mouth._

_She says them matter-of-factly. It is the truth._

_“You can’t wake up. This isn’t a dream.”_

If Rachel is not real, then why is all this happening?

 


	11. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11: Control — She's haunted by Rachel, she's haunted by them all. These hotels have hallways that echo and groan. It's not the first time in her life that Max has not felt in Control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maxine Caulfield is insane.
> 
> MAXINEisaSUPERHERO – don’t you know?
> 
> A super fucked up hero. 
> 
> Don’t you know that you’re better off dead?

She is awake. Everything is sticky. Her head feels heavy, but it is only from the glittering pink liquid that covers the floor. Her eyes flick over the mess of the room.

A bottle lays on its side. It is cracked and all the bubbling happiness has rolled around on the tiles and soaked into her shirt and hair. There is blood dripping from the sink.

Everything is foggy and her mouth tastes like the metallic tang of blood and bile.  She knows she has to get up, but – Oh, God – everything hurts, everything hurts. Rewinding does that to her; it tears at her muscles, squeezes her mind until it crumples. She is ripping herself to shreds for no other reason than

(she believes she deserves it.)

Getting to her feet is one of the most difficult things she’s ever done, and that’s saying something considering she had to decide between being selfish and being selfless and—well, we all know how that turned out. 

But, once she is up, things seem to get a bit easier.

Why, yes, there is a bloody mess in the sink. And, as she dares to look at her reflection, she notices the fresh blood on her lips, among other things.

She has not been passed out for too long.

Maybe Chloe is still asleep. Maybe she didn’t hear the yelling and the choking and the _terror—_

Max slips through the door. Chloe lies in bed, lifeless. This does not seem possible, yet there she is, laying there, breathing soundly. She is thankful because she does not want to explain, but she is also sad because she needs to talk, to get the horror out, but the other part of her feels a presence inside her and all around her, and it’s telling her to _leave._

_Maxine Caulfield is insane._

_MAXINEisaSUPERHERO – don’t you know?_

_A super **fucked up** hero. _

_Don’t you know that you’re **better off dead?**_

Yes, she knows that. Geez, can’t these fucking thoughts leave her the fuck alone? Rachel Amber is one thing, but now she’s hearing things/feeling things/believing things. 

A thought flashes through her mind: ‘ _What is wrong with me?’_

 _“Didn’t you get the memo? You’re_ insane. _”_

She slips on her jeans, grabs her messenger bag, and sneaks out the door. Unlike the sleazy motels they’ve been in, this is an actual hotel with hallways and a lobby. It might even have a pool; she can’t remember. Whatever. Does it even matter anymore? Do pools and amenities truly matter when you’re a _goddamn murderer?_

Of course not. Haha.

She paces up and down the hall, finds there stairs, walks up and down those, finds herself on another floor. She’s lost and wanders for what seems like hours, but those hours may just be a couple of minutes. No one is quite sure.

Floor Nine is the floor they have their room on, but she can’t remember what the room number is. She looks in her bag, looking for the paper slip that contains the plastic key card and room number, but she gets distracted.

 _“Do you remember the very first time we snuck into Blackwell’s pool?”_  

Max flips around and gawks, prepared to see Chloe standing there, judging her, but instead, she sees nothing. But, Chloe’s voice is still in her head, and this doesn’t make sense to Max because Chloe is just on the other side of one of these doors.

What’s happening? What’s happening?

_“You were so scared. But, what more can I expect from a little chicken shit like you?”_

She whips around again, trying to find the source of Chloe’s voice. She starts walking down the hall, eyes wide and bleary, breathing shallow and ragged breaths.

(This reminds her of her nightmares. Wandering around and around the hallways of her dorm, opening doors and finding herself back where she started, trying to figure out where her mind wants her to go when her brain has been beaten and bruised by her own power.)

Max steps forward even though her whole body feels heavy.

She’s on a mission. Not sure what. A mission. Go get the diamonds and gold. Yes, that’s it; she’s hunting a treasure chest, a fortune! Yes, that’s why she is stumbling down the hallways of the hotel, trying to ignore that voices that scratch at the inside of her skull. 

Mission, mission. What was the mission again? Does it matter? Who cares?

( _You’reAfuckingMURDERER)_

This all feels like a dream, like the walls are swelling and shrinking – like they’re breathing, like the walls are alive.

It’s because she’s sick. She _knows_ she’s sick, but she’s afraid to say it out loud, to say, ‘I need help’ because Heroes save the day. Heroes don’t need to be saved.

_Oh, yeah. Max Caulfield is a real hero. Don’t make me laugh._

But, Oh God, her mind is so jumbled/her mind is not hers/her mind has got up and walked away. Something _is wrong_ , and Max is scared shitless, but she can’t tell anyone because they would think _she’s a basket case,_ they’d throw her in the nut house, they’d lock her up and throw away the fucking key.

Max finds herself sitting on the floor of the hallway, knees pulled up to her chest. She’s trying to regulate her breathing, but it’s like the hotel is _possessed _—__ like shadows are growing out of the carpet and the front desk is staffed with monsters. She hopes time is passing, but Max has lost any concept of time a long time ago.

( _Why’d you let me die, Max?_ ) 

She looks around. When did Victoria get here? What’s happening?

( _Thanks for letting me_ _jump, Max. Now, we'll see each other again in hell._ )

It’s clear that Max is familiar with the demons that live in her head.

( _Look at those big eyes – so pure. If only we could have stayed in the Dark Room together._ )

Max scrambles to her feet and lets out a frightened squeak because the hallways echo and groan around her.

They are definitely closing in. Devils and angels whisper in her ear. It’s all real, it has to be it has to be. She’s never seen or heard such terrors, so this has to be reality. Even though the floral wallpaper seems to be crawling along side her, Max can’t comprehend that this may not be a proper view of reality.

“ _Going crazy will do that to you._ ”

_Rachel Amber stands tall at the end of the hall, right before the emergency exit. The glowing red light of the ‘EXIT’ sign illuminates her in a way that makes her look like a devil—a monster._

Max clutches the strap of her bag and tries to pretend like she’s not shaking. “I know I’m crazy. Can we stop talking about it?” she breathes heavily, pulling out her polaroid camera. She looks into the viewfinder and—

_“Are you wasting your precious film on me? I’m blushing.”_

_Click! Flash! Wrrr—_

She grabs the photo as her camera spits it out. She shakes it and shoves it in her messenger bag, letting it develop in the dark. When she looks back up, it’s Chloe, not Rachel who is outlined in red.

_“You’re wasting your film on me.”_

“No, _shut up_ ,” she spits, hands threading through her own hair, pulling at her roots just to make sure this is real—this is real—this is real—

Her eyes are as blue and as piercing as her hair, and it cuts through Max’s chest, and she has to breathe in sharply to make sure she’s not dying, and she turns around and runs, trying to remember what room is hers, and she fumbles around in her bag and she finds the card, and slips it into the door, and—

 

* * *

 

“ _Chloe._ ”

Chloe gasps, eyes snapping open at the sound of her name.

Max looms over her, on top on her, hands on either side of Chloe’s head.

“What the fucking _hell_ , Max?”

Max’s eyes are wide and wild and full of tears. Her chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath. 

“Oh my gosh, Chloe,” she says, one of her small cold hands touching Chloe’s face. “You’re real, you’re real, oh my gosh—“

“Max, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Max flops onto the bed next to Chloe, and then Max is up pacing around and mumbling to herself. This wakes Chloe up very quickly because it’s not like she can sleep after worrying endlessly about Maxine Caulfield.

“Max,” Chloe groans her name again, more concern seeping into her voice, sitting up and rubbing her eyes so she's sure she’s not seeing things. “What are you doing?”

Her words pour out fast and panicked.

“N-Nothing, nothing – nothing’s wrong, I’m just s-stressed, and my head _won’t shut the fuck up._ ”

Chloe sits up and watches in muted terror as Max presses the heels of her hands against her forehead.

“Is it a headache?”

“Y-Yeah, I mean, not really. I mean, yeah my head is killing me, but _she_ won’t leave me alone—" 

This time, Chloe catches it.

“ _She?_ ”

It’s almost as if Max doesn’t hear her. She keeps pacing and pacing and pacing. 

“Max.”

Still no recognition. What is going on?

“ _Max.”_

( _SOMETHING IS WRONG_ )

“ _Max!”_

Finally, blue eyes flick up to meet blue eyes. She stands frozen, feet stuck to the dirty hotel carpet.

“Huh?”

“What is going on with you? I’m so _confused_.” Chloe’s words come out as an exasperated groan. “Why don’t you ever tell me what’s going on?” She hates feeling worried (yet she feels worried all the time). She can’t stand to see Max in pain (yet Max is always/always/always in pain).

For a second, Max just stares, doe eyes huge and mouth gaping open. It looks like she’s battling within herself, having an argument inside her head. Then, her focus is on her messenger bag. She pulls out a photo _—_ the only photo she has taken since the storm.

It’s a polaroid of an emergency exit door, a bright red light screaming at her, mocking her, crushing her.

The photo falls from her hands and onto the floor. Max looks up at Chloe, and tears well in her eyes and spill down her cheeks.

“I-I’m going c-crazy.”

The words break her out into sobs, and her shoulders heave much like how Rachel’s used to when they sat on the dirt floor of American Rust. Chloe scrambles out of bed and grabs Max’s shoulders, letting her know that she’s still here for her.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Chloe whispers, “You’re okay.”

“N-No, I-I’m not,” Max chokes out between sobs.

Chloe tenses.

“What—” 

She bends down, taking the photo in her hands, and giving it to Chloe. Chloe doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s a sign that says ‘ _EXIT._ ’ It’s a cool shot, but it’s just that: a cool shot.

“What does this have to do with anything?”

Chloe doesn’t get it. 

Max takes the photo back and taps her pointer finger onto it as if somehow she will bring out the visage she was trying to capture.

“Rachel,” Max whines, her voice dipping low as she tries to control her emotions. It’s funny because tears keep running down her face, so sounding strong is a bit of a moot point. “Rachel was here. I tried to take a photo. I swear, she just won’t leave me alone. I’m not making it up.”

Chloe bristles, body tensing, but unlike last time, she just sighs.

“C’mon, Max, let’s go back to bed.” 

“No! No, please believe me. She keeps haunting me. I can’t get her to _go away._ ”

Chloe grits her teeth because – God damn – if Max is telling the truth and she can see Rachel somehow, Chloe would be unbelievably jealous. So, she just pushes the thought away.

“ _Max_. Let’s get _some sleep._ You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“ _No!_ Ch- _loe._ Please listen to me.”

Chloe’s lips are pressed together. She is obviously annoyed, but she’s trying. That’s all she ever does, after all. Max grabs Chloe’s wrists and pulls her closer so their eyes can meet. She can’t help but notice the redness that paints her lips like badly done lipstick.

“There’s something wrong with me.”

There.

She finally gets it out. It’s been gnawing at her chest for days. But, instead of feeling good about it, she feels like total shit.

(Acknowledging that Max is not perfect, that Max is not the Super Heroine of Blackwell Academy, that Maxine Caulfield is not an Everyday Hero makes her feel hollow inside. She can feel the snakes that curl inside her rib cage and strangle her already addled brain.)

“Clearly,” Chloe snaps, although no one is sure if she’s being facetious or not.

“Come _on_ , Chloe. I’m trying to talk to you.”

“And I’m listening to you.”

Max breaks eye contact, lets go of Chloe’s wrists, lets her hands drop at her side.

“I’m hallucinating.”

There’s a beat of silence where it sounds like Chloe doesn’t believe her, but the truth is that Chloe has kind of had the feeling that something was going to go terribly, terribly, horribly wrong.

Max opens her mouth to say something, but Chloe beats her to the punch.

“We have to get you to the hospital.”

Max tenses.

“No.”

“ _Max._ If you are hallucinating—“ (she leaves out Rachel’s name because her name tastes like rust and broken promises) “—you need medical attention.” Chloe reaches out and grabs her chin to look at the redness that covers her mouth and jaw, and Max jerks away, hands gripped because she knows she’s been caught. “And you bled _again_.”

“I threw up,” she mutters, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Too much champagne." 

“You threw up _blood?_ ” 

“I mean—“

“Max, we’re leaving now.” Chloe reaches out and grabs Max’s hand—the one that’s not bloody.

“They won’t understand. They’ll think I’m crazy. I can’t tell them about the rewind—“

“So you’ve been rewinding?”

“We were going to fly off the road—“ 

“No, I mean, more than just _that._ ”

Max closes her mouth and her jaw clenches. She’s trying to keep her secrets inside her, but her demons beg her to open her mouth.

“Okay, _yes_ , I’m rewinding, but it’s not like I’m trying to hurt myself—I mean, not really. It’s not about _that_ —“

As Max babbles on, Chloe’s face melts from a stoic anger into a soft solemnness. She doesn’t have anything to say because she knows why someone would hurt themselves to feel like they matter, or feel like they exist, or feel like they’re the worst. It’s so easy. It’s _so easy_ , and all Max has to do it reach out and rip at the fabric of time, and she can prove that she is nothing but a messed up lump of flesh that can't do anything but shake and sob and freak the fuck out.

Chloe is jarred out of her thoughts by Max grabbing at her arms.

“—Please just get me out of _this place_ , not the hospital, just somewhere, _please._ T-They’re coming for me. They’re coming for me—“

“Shut up,” Chloe commands, voice lowering to indicate she means bidness. “We’re leaving. And we’re going to drive back home, okay? But if you get _any worse_ , I’m calling 911, understand?”

Max takes in a deep breath as if she's going to protest, but she nods anyway.

“Okay. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

They leave the room to go check out, leaving the bloodied sink and cracked champagne bottle behind them.

 

* * *

 

They drive too fast.

Max has not written in her new notebook once during their whole California Vacation, but as Chloe blasts down the highway, drives back north as fast as she possibly can, Max’s pen flies over the pages of her new notebook with a similar lightning speed. Every so often, Chloe glances over, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever the hell is so important that she must document it at a time like this.

All Chloe can see are swirls and doodles of people and words written too quickly to be decipherable. She knows she shouldn’t ask, but she does anyway.

“What’re you writing about?”

Max does not stop, only flips the page and keeps scribbling.

“Max—?”

“The voices—the demons that—uh—are in my head, they’re begging me to write because, um, then they’ll be alive when I’m dead.”

The words are nonsense—complete gibberish—but they still frighten Chloe. Even more distressing, Max just _keeps writing._

Another lull in conversation. It almost stings Chloe’s skin like the Pacific Ocean wind.

“Can you really see her?”

“Sometimes,” Max murmurs while scribbling away.

“Does she look like she does in my pictures?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean by, ‘sort of?’”

This makes Max pause and look up from the bound pages. 

“She seems meaner. Like she wants to cause us pain.” On the top of an almost completely filled page, Max writes in very precise lettering: ‘RACHEL’S REVENGE,’ and she begins to read out loud. “The storm. My powers. The Dark Room. Chloe Price. Kate Marsh. Victoria Chase. Nathan Prescott. Mark Jefferson. Binders full of dead girls.” 

Chloe feels ill, but Max keeps reading her chicken scratch as if it means anything at all.

“Nose bleeds. Bullets: to the head, to the stomach. Bottles. Cigarettes. The Storm.”

The silence is deafening.

“ _Maxine Caulfield._ ” 

Chloe’s stomach bottoms out, and she pulls off at an exit that has a rest stop, and she parks her car, but before she can do anything but open the door, she vomits onto the pavement. She didn’t even have to use her fingers this time.

Sitting sideways in her seat, fingers threaded through blue hair, Chloe fights off panic, trying to keep her breathing from edging into the land of hyperventilation.

The truth is that Chloe has never gotten over _her_ , has never had time to process her death, has never been able to fit the pieces together, and Max’s semi-psychosis seems to bring up thoughts and feelings that Chloe thought she could bury forever.

Max even _sounds like her_ when she mutters, “Are you okay?”

“Um, obviously not,” Chloe growls. Her back being turned toward Max is her attempt to block out the idea that maybe Rachel is involved with this in some weird, demented way.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” Max whispers. 

She sounds so much like Rachel that a new wave of nausea slams Chloe in the stomach.

“It’s _fine._ Goddammit.”

Why is Max acting like this? Why does she open the door, and get out of the truck, and start walking away?

Chloe leans over and throws up again, and she dimly remembers that this is how she feels when she is sick, and it’s very different from when she makes herself that way.

Sitting up straight in the seat of her truck, she realizes that Max has been gone for a hot second.

“ _Shit._ ”

She hops out of her truck (avoiding her own mess), slams the door behind her, and starts running. She has the feeling that Max is 'Capital N,’ Not Okay. Chloe looks around, trying to see if there is any indication that Max is Somewhere.

The wind off the coast is actually very cold, and Chloe shivers as she runs closer to the water _—_ where the cliff drops off and rocks and sand and bright blue water exists below.

‘ _Rachel would have loved it here_ ,’ Chloe can’t help but think. Maybe that’s why Max ran off towards the ocean.

It sounds absolutely _insane_ , but there is obviously some link between Rachel and Max, whether it be threaded through time or only by coincidence. Maybe it’s not totally out of left field for Chloe to be thinking about Rachel’s hopes and dreams in times like these. Maybe there is something about Max and Rachel that are meant to be intrinsically connected.

Then, Chloe sees her.

Max is sitting on a bench overlooking the ocean. She doesn’t move when Chloe calls her name. Chloe tries again, more pain infiltrating her tone, and this time, Max looks over her shoulder. She stands up and takes a few steps towards the fence that keeps young girls from barreling into the depths of the Pacific Ocean.

“Max!”

Her body teeters, and for a split second, Chloe feels a sort of terror that she has only felt one other time.

Max steadies herself and turns, a strange sort of blankness in her features.

“I can hear them, you know.”

Chloe takes a step closer, but she’s _scared_. Max doesn’t look or sound like she normally does, and it scares the shit out of her.

“W-Who?”

She tilts her head to the side like she’s listening to the sky above her and the ocean behind her.

“All the people I killed,” she says without much inflection at all. It’s a fact, after all. “The kids and the families—I killed them all, and they’re all haunting me.” Her head straightens and she looks over the Pacific Ocean and into the glittering horizon. “I guess I kind of deserve it.”

“ _Max._ Please come here—“

“ _No._ This is my—this is my punishment.” Her hand presses against her chest, over her heart. “I’m the one who _needs to die_.”

For not the first time today, Chloe’s insides twist and fall to her feet.

“No, no, no. No _fucking way_ , Max. You didn’t do all that shit just to _die._ ”

“I can’t help it.” Her body is tense, her voice is tense, her expression is tense. She can’t look at Chloe, so she looks out over the fence. “I’m a murderer. It’s only fair.”

Chloe opens her mouth, words shaking and tears pricking her eyes. 

“Please stop. You’re scaring me.”

Max whips around, eyes wild with anger and frustration and something else that Chloe has never seen in her before.

“God damn, _right!_ You should be scared of me!”

Chloe jerks back, a quick shock of anxiety flashing up her spine. Her body is telling her to run, but her mind is telling her to stay put. She has to listen, to keep Max safe.

It’s only fair.

“I killed everyone, I killed _everyone_. I am a _mass murderer,_ and I have _killed_ more people than I could ever know, and you should be _fucking scared of me_.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Chloe lies.

“You never were.”

The words strike her as odd (as if the rest of the conversation hadn’t).

“What do you mean?” 

“You always trusted me when you probably shouldn’t have. I’m not a fucking angel.”

 _My angel_.

Fuck. This whole Maxine Caulfield/Rachel Amber thing is really fucking weird, and it makes Chloe feel uneasy and a bit nauseous, but there’s nothing in her stomach to throw up anymore.

“M-Max?”

The expression on Max’s face that Chloe can’t figure out looks so familiar and foreign at the same time. There’s a bit of confidence, a bit of sorrow, a bit of madness. They stare at each other in a face-off of sorts, both trying to figure out what is running through the other’s head.

“You never could take a hint, Chloe.”

Then it hits her.

 _Rachel_.

“Are you wondering who’s in control?”

One final beat of silence. The wind of the coast slices through the both of them but neither dare move.

“Who is in control?”

Her lips turn upwards into a wicked smirk.

And Max blacks out.

 


	12. doG gnuoY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .liated eht ot evals a reveroF .tnavresbo eht era evol ni desruc reveroF — doG gnuoY :21 retpahC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rachel IS HERE.
> 
> Chloe WAS HERE.
> 
> Max WAS HERE.
> 
> YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIE.

_.liated eht ot evals a reveroF_

Words spill out of the darkness in reverse. Not from anywhere, not from nowhere, not from anyone. She tries to breathe in and finds she can’t.

Does she have a body? Does she even have a consciousness?

_.tnavresbo eht era evol ni desruc reveroF_

Does a body really matter when all you are is crazy? When you go insane, what even is consciousness?

She reaches out and finds she has a hand. It is outstretched in front of her as if she were trying to latch onto something—anything—but instead, she begins to fall. The sensation of her stomach bottoming out as if she is being flung down the hill of a rollercoaster consumes her, but she can’t scream or cry or say anything because she is only darkness.

It is only a split second of terror because she finds herself sitting in a chair. Across from her sits the angel with golden hair and crystal eyes.

Rachel leans forward.

“He says—“

No longer are words backwards. Rachel Amber has flipped the switch and pulled her into reality(?). 

It is Mark Jefferson and Rachel Amber sitting in seats across from each other. They are too close in proximity to be the teacher and the student, but everyone already knows they fucked, so it’s a bit unnecessary to pretend they haven’t.

He opens his fucking mouth, but Rachel’s voice comes out. She’s the narrator of this scene.

“ _Ooh, Baby girl,_ _you know we’re going to be legends.”_

His hand brushes her jaw line and she leans into him.

_“I’m the King and you’re the Queen, and we will stumble through Heaven—“_

Max watches, feels this happen, but she’s not exactly sure _where she is_. She tries to look around, to figure out what’s happening, but she cannot. She realizes it’s because she is in Rachel’s seat.

Jefferson keeps talking with Rachel’s words in his mouth.

“ _If there’s a light at the end, it’s just the sun in your eyes—“_

She finds herself smiling, finds herself blushing, finds herself feeling a certain sense of longing, but this is only because she has stolen Rachel’s body. He grabs her hand, and even though she wants to jerk away, she really can’t because Rachel wouldn’t have.

“— _I know you want to go to heaven, but you’re human tonight._ ”

They both stand and a pair of big hands pull her into an embrace.

Max still can’t breathe. She can’t get away. She feels trapped, and the horror in her eyes relays it perfectly. 

If this were not a recording of events, Jefferson probably would have grabbed his camera just so he could look at her fearful doe eyes for eternity. But, the show must go on.

Unfortunately.

Rachel reaches out and grabs Max’s other hand, and she pulls her so she tips sideways, but instead of colliding with the floor, she falls into warm water. 

She can’t open her eyes, or if she can, she can’t see because she’s submerged in darkness. She can’t breathe, and it’s getting uncomfortable. Though, this feeling, this weightlessness of the water caressing her body is wholly better than being in Mark Jefferson’s arms.

Something brushes her arm, and Max is able to make out an image in the darkness.

It’s Rachel again. Can’t she ever leave her alone?

She drifts downward, her hair fanning in all directions. As light begins to infiltrate the water, it becomes clear and glittering blue, and warm sunlight makes Rachel appear heavenly. 

She wants to go to heaven, right? But, why would she when she’s literally a goddess on this Earth?

“ _I’ve been sitting at the bottom of this swimming pool for a while now.”_  

Max tries to ask, ‘why?’ but she can’t even open her mouth. Rachel gets the idea.

_“I’m drowning my thoughts with all the sounds.”_

There are no sounds at the bottom of this swimming pool, but she can certainly drown her thoughts here. Max idly wonders if Rachel wanted to actually drown at the bottom of the Blackwell Pool/The Sandy Beaches of California/her bathtub.

Almost as if Rachel can read her thoughts, she smiles and lets her eyes close.

It’s getting harder to see. It’s getting darker again. Max looks up and rose petals are slowly dropping into the water and floating on the surface.

Jefferson’s voice is in her head.

“ _An American Beauty reference? How trite.”_

Max furrows her eyebrows as she hasn’t even seen that movie, but if it has anything to do with Mr. Jefferson, she’d rather skip it.

She’s distracted by a singular petal that drifts in front of her, so she is shocked when she is grabbed and pulled by her wrist.

She gasps because she can breathe again.

Chloe spins around with wild eyes, excitement bubbling from every particle of her being. She looks like the ghost of Room 93: pale and blue and illuminated. But, instead of a hotel room, they are by the lighthouse. The coast sparkles like Rachel’s eyes, and the sky is as blue as Chloe’s hair.

“ _This is so fucking awesome, Max,_ ” Chloe beams, still holding onto Max’s wrist.

“Huh?” is all Max can get out. She’s still surprised that her lungs are functioning again.

“ _We’re on top of the damn world!_ ” she shouts to either Max or the ocean (she’s not sure). Chloe’s inhale is shallow, probably from excitement. Her other hand grabs Max’s other wrist, and she tugs hard. She acts like a kid trying to get her parent’s attention. “ _Do you feel like a Young God?_ ”

Finally, Max can speak.

“What are you talking about? What’s happening?”

The question doesn’t seem to phase Chloe at all. Her piercing blue eyes just _stare_ , and Max feels a lump rise in her throat.

“ _You know, the two of us are just Young Gods,_ ” she repeats and then turns to point at Arcadia Bay below them. “ _We’ll be flying through the streets with the people underneath, and they’ll all be running again._ ”

“What are you talking about?” Max tries again, but it is obvious that this conversation has been prerecorded. She can’t get Chloe to focus on her words, which means that this probably isn’t Chloe at all.

She’s right. Rachel is holding her wrists, grinning wildly.

“ _Let’s go_ ,” she whispers.

“Where?”

Before Max can suck in any more air, Rachel pulls at her, and Max stumbles on her feet, and she realizes that they are jumping off the cliff—

 

* * *

Was there an impact? Max can’t remember.

But it’s peaceful and quiet here, wherever “here” is. She can hear Chloe whispering and Rachel giggling, and she feels like she’s floating. Words are jumbled and twisting, inverting themselves so she can only understand in reverse.

It’s kind of like the swimming pool, but there are noises all around her. She can breathe, she can open her eyes, but she’s nowhere.

Until she’s somewhere.

It is an unsurprisingly neat apartment with the scent of citrus surface cleaner and various chemicals used to develop film. Black and white art pepper the walls. A light is on at a desk. The room is not well lit.

Max doesn’t know where this is, but she somehow knows that it is not safe. It is not safe, and she needs to get out, to run, to do _something_ , but instead, she stands there and shakes. She’s cold, and she is so nervous that it permeates the air.

She ventures over to the black suede couch and sits, taking up as little room as possible. A small glass of water sits on the glass coffee table, a black coaster under it to catch the condensation. It looks delicious. Max can’t remember the last time she had something to drink (besides the champagne that Rachel forced down her throat). She picks up the glass (it’s pretty fancy, she notes) and takes a sip. It tastes funny like someone put salt in it. Why would someone put salt in a glass of water?

Setting the glass back down, she gets up and wanders, looking at the pictures on the walls. They’re all nondescript and boring. In fact, they don’t look like anything at all. They are blurry and have very little definition. Max turns and realizes it’s also the walls and the furniture that are blurry. Everything is black and white and splotchy.

Her legs feel weak. Her head swims.

Rachel is standing next to her. 

“ _He says—_ “

When Max realizes what is about to happen, it’s already too late.

She’s grabbed by an angry, domineering hand. She’s shoved against the wall, left arm pinned above her head. She cries out in pain when her head knocks backwards, just narrowly missing the corner of a portrait.

“ _Ooh, baby girl, don’t get cut on my edges._ ”

It is not Rachel’s voice this time. It is Mr. Mark Jefferson’s. Just like the room, his eyes are black and white and blurry. Max tries to cry out, but he puts a hand over her mouth.

“ _I’m the King of Everything._ ”

Max cranes her head to see if Rachel is still standing there watching, and she is. Her expression is blank even though tears are streaming down her face. This makes Max’s heart skip a beat.

“ _And, oh, my tongue is a weapon._ ”

 _Everyone knows Rachel Amber and Mark Jefferson slept together_.

She feels tears prick her eyes, but for some reason, Jefferson removes his hand from over her lips.

“Are you gonna fuck me, too?” Max spits with venom, trying to stay angry and not let tears blur her vision.

“ _Do you want me to fuck you, Max?_ ”

“That’s not what I asked.” There is a beat of silence, much like when she doesn’t know what to say to Chloe, but since these words are not hers, Max has to wonder if this is how it played out in the past. Is this punishment for abusing her rewind? Is this part of Rachel’s Revenge? What is happening?

He shoves her, and his mouth is on hers, and Max tries to bite his lip, kick him in the groin, _do something_ , but she can’t move very well, probably because of that water that tasted weird.

It also dawns on her as Jefferson’s tongue slips between her lips that this might have happened in the past as well, that this is a repeat of prior events. She’s not sure, and she's trying not give up, but it’s hard because she’s feeling a bit woozy, and Mr. Mark Jefferson’s teeth are on her neck.

His voice rings through her ears.

“ _If you want to go to Heaven, you should fuck me tonight._ ”

Max looks pleadingly at Rachel.

“How do I get this to stop?”

 

* * *

 

She’s in the pool again. But this time, Rachel is sitting motionless at the bottom. Max swims closer. She reaches out and grabs the ripped sleeve of her flannel.

Blood pours out of her body and diffuses in the water like food coloring.

 

* * *

 

Max screams, sitting up and choking. She’s still soaked, and it’s because she’s sitting in a bathtub of blood. Hers? Rachel’s? Chloe’s? Someone else’s?

“No, no, no—“

She scrambles to get out, but she has nothing on, and blood is dripping from her/from the ceiling/from the walls/from who knows where. She isn’t cut up, so she doesn’t know why she’s covered in so much blood. Grabbing a towel, she races out of the tub and looks in the mirror, and her mouth and jaw and chest are crimson.

* * *

 

A fan blows on her skin. She lays backwards on Chloe’s bed, letting the sun warm her skin. Her eyes drift around, trying to find Chloe, but she’s not there.

Weird.

She’s standing, unsure of when that happened. She is in front of the closet. She’s done this before. She moves the lamp so it doesn’t fall and knock everything down. She slides open the door.

Before she can register sight, a smell hits her nose that is so vile, she has to try not to vomit. When she looks up, there’s a girl with skull tank top and jeans who looks to have been dead for quite some time because half of her skin has melted away.

Max stumbles backwards and trips over a security deposit box, and she falls to the floor in a heap, and—

 

* * *

 

Max sits in the passenger seat of Chloe’s car watching the exit signs pass by. Off to California they go. It’s been a long time coming. 

“Hey, Max.”

She turns, seeing not Chloe, but Rachel behind the wheel of the vehicle.

“Rachel?”

She smiles and turns to steal a glance at Max.

“R-Rachel, what’s happening?" 

“Uh, we’re driving to LA, duh.”

“Where’s Chloe?”

Rachel’s perfectly plucked eyebrows knit together.

“She’s dead, remember?”

“ _What?_ ”

This is when Max realizes that they are not actually driving on a road at all. They are driving in total darkness. The only source of light is the truck’s brights, but it’s not like there’s anything to light up.

“Hey, Max,” Rachel repeats, taking her hands off the wheel. It looks like she doesn’t want to say what she’s about to say, but she does it anyway.

“Do you feel like a Young God?”

Max shakes her head wildly, tears pooling in her eyes. She can’t take much more of this. 

“No! No, _fuck_ , I’m not a _God!_ I never asked for this power!” 

Rachel looks amused by Max’s outburst. The car is driving itself so Rachel places an ice cold hand on Max’s thigh. “But, the two of us are just Young Gods.”

“F-Fuck you—I want to get out of here. This can’t be real. This can’t be real!”

She’s crying, and Rachel just sighs in annoyance. 

“I feel pretty real; don’t you think?”

 

* * *

 

No more driving, no more trucks. She standing in front of Room 93 in Nowheresville, CA. Max holds the key that says **_ROOM 93_** in bold black letters. It’s scratched up, but she can still make it out.

She puts the key in the lock and turns, and Rachel is sitting on the bed, smoking a cigarette.

“Took you long enough,” she quips, smoke floating from her lip gloss covered lips. Her cigarette has a ring of sparkly pink at the end. 

“Where am I?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Rachel asks as if Max just asked the stupidest question in the entire fucking world. She motions to the window. The curtains are drawn, and the window shows a desert wasteland, definitely not the lush coast of Northern California. “We’re in the Badlands. It looks like we’re one of the only ones left. Everyone stays here in this hotel.” 

Max is confused, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she walks over to the bed and sits next to Rachel. She hands her the cigarette, and even though Max knows she probably shouldn’t smoke, she does anyway because Rachel looks so pretty doing it.

It tastes bitter, but not horrible. She imagined worse. The smoke escapes her mouth once she opens it.

Rachel takes the cigarette back and stubs it out in the ashtray. She must have brought it from home because these are “No Smoking” rooms. There’s some law about it or something, but if they’re the only ones left, then it doesn’t really matter if they smoke indoors or not.

“Come ‘er,” Rachel murmurs, interrupting Max’s thoughts. She turns, and Rachel leans in to capture Max’s lips, and even though Max probably hallucinated the last time, her lips feel warm and familiar. She wonders if this actually is reality because, if it is, she doesn’t mind it. 

(The previous horrors don’t register. She doesn’t remember much of anything. Her head feels fuzzy and very painful, which makes it difficult to think and difficult to remember.)

They split from each other, both trying to catch their breath. Rachel’s lips taste like strawberries.

“I love you,” Max whispers under her breath.

“Aw,” Rachel coos. 

Condescending.

But, Max doesn’t really _care_. She’s never been sold on the idea of love in the first place, so Rachel not reciprocating doesn’t really bother her. Something tells her that they’re probably both dead anyway, so why bother?

“Is Chloe still dead?” Max asks.

“Chloe? Who’s Chloe?” 

She shakes her head, trying to jog her own memory.

“I—I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

They sit on the dirt floor of American Rust, where American Girls go to die. 

“I want to die,” Rachel says, but she is out of tears.

Chloe sits on their makeshift table, sharpening a stick with her switchblade. Y’know, just for fun.

“Same.” There’s not much inflection in her tone.

Max stands in the doorway, but something tells her that she’s not supposed to be here. Max isn’t even sure if she’s really there at all.  

She looks at the wall.

_Rachel was here._

_Chloe was here._

“How would you do it?” Rachel doesn’t make eye contact with either of them.

Chloe stops sharpening for a second and looks up, her gaze going to the small window in the corner. “Probably get one of my step douche’s guns and—“ Chloe pantomimes with her pointer finger and thumb, pressing her finger to her temple. She fires with her thumb, making a “bang” sound.

“Why a gun?”

“Seems painless enough,” Chloe shrugs. “How ‘bout you?”

“Well, I’ve thought about taking too many of my Mom’s pain meds, but I think it’d be easier just to jump off that cliff by the lighthouse.”

“I should have known it’d be some dramatic bullshit.” They both laugh, but Max isn’t sure what’s so funny. She shuffles awkwardly in the doorway.

Rachel looks up from the ground.

“How about you Max?”

This jolts her because she didn’t even know Rachel and Chloe could see her.

“I—uh—I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Ooh, okay, so you’re one of those neurotypical shits who thinks life is worth living,” Chloe grunts, her upper lip curling into an ugly sneer.

“I’m sorry, I just—“

“Jesus, Chlo, you’re so fucking rude,” Rachel sighs.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’d really like to know what it feels like not to want to die every fucking second of the day.”

Both Rachel and Max frown.

Before another word is said, Rachel gets up, takes Max over to the wall and hands her a Sharpie. Max knows what to do, so she writes, “ _Max was here,_ ” under the other two names.

 

* * *

 

**_Rachel ~~WAS~~ IS HERE._ **

**_Chloe WAS HERE._ **

****

**_Max WAS HERE._ **

****

**_YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIE._ **

****

* * *

 

It’s night. Chloe and Rachel are gone. She turns around and locks eyes with Nathan Prescott. He says nothing because he can’t see her. His hand is bleeding horribly, and he clutches it, gritting his teeth. 

“ _Nathan!_ ”

Jefferson’s voice is loud and booming and way too close for comfort.

“Shit,” he heaves out. Then, like Rachel and Chloe before, Nathan realizes Max is here. “Come on, we have to run or he’s gonna fucking kill us.”

Max looks out the door and bolts, running as fast as she can. Nathan is right next to her and they run, run, run.

She doesn’t know why, but under her breath, Max whispers, “We’ll be flying through the streets with the people underneath, and they'll be running, running, running.”

“What the actual fuck are talking about, Caulfield?” Nathan pants, trying to be quiet about it but failing.

“I don’t know. I don’t think this is real.”

“I’m _not_ testing that theory right now. Keep running.”

She keeps running, but she’s not in the junkyard.

She’s at the lighthouse again, but this time, The Storm looms in the distance and rain pelts her like bullets. 

“Max!”

Chloe’s arms are wrapped around her.

“Jesus, don’t you ever do that again!”

“Wha—“

“You passed out! I thought you were going to die or some shit.” Chloe certainly does look worried. Her blue eyes are dark and stormy, and her mouth is etched into a disappointed frown.

“I don’t know what’s—“

“Max, you have to make a decision.”

That’s right. The storm. It’s going to kill everybody. But, hasn’t she done this before? Isn’t that why this is happening in the first place?

Max turns away from Chloe and rubs her eyes. Her head is fucking _killing her_. 

“Max…?”

“F-Fuck, Chloe, it hurts so bad,” she whimpers when she turns back around. Blood drips from her nose and onto her shirt. “How do I get it to stop?”

“I-I don’t know,” she says quietly, taking a step closer. “I never know what to do. You’re the only thing I have, y’know?”

These words hit Max in the chest, and she feels like she can’t breathe again.

“I’m not going to sacrifice you. I c-can’t,” she whimpers, trying to wipe away the blood that keeps falling down her lips. “Y-You mean so much to me, and I-I don’t regret it. I really don’t.”

“Max, what are you talking about?”

“This has—this has happened before. I chose you over Arcadia Bay. And I’d do it again.” Max has broken down into sobs once again. Everything hurts so bad. “I love you, Chloe.”

Chloe looks between the town and Max, and she is even crying now.

“I love you, too, Max.”

Max looks up from the ground so she can meet Chloe’s eyes, but once again, it’s Rachel who has taken her place.

“You’re going to die.”

“What—“

Rachel grabs her by the bloody collar of her shirt and practically drags her to the edge of the cliff. They teeter there for a second, and a certain terror fills her up. She can’t stop crying, and her head hurts so _fucking bad._  

“You have to wake up,” Rachel commands, using a small push to threaten her.

"But how? I don't know how!"

She can’t tell if it’s tears or rain that soak her face. Rachel is Chloe again. Her eyes are softer, but her grip is stronger.

_Wake up, Max._

"I said, I didn't know—"

Black eyes stare down at her. She is looking up at Mr. Jefferson, but everyone else in the whole world is there, too. She sees all the people of Arcadia Bay—every single one of them—and they all say the same thing.

**_WAKE UP_ **

A force pushes her over the edge and she tumbles down, down, down—

And Max wakes up.


	13. Roman Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13: Roman Holiday — They're lacing the same shoes that they've worn through, but it's different now. After all, if you've hit rock bottom, there's nowhere to look but up. And, Max and Chloe have definitely hit rock bottom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be looking for Sunlight or the Headlights as our wide eyes burn blind.
> 
> Feet first, don't fall, and we'll be running again.
> 
> KEEP CLOSE/STAND TALL

Her eyes open.

It’s bright, much too bright, so she closes her eyes again. 

There’s a steady beat beside her head and when she tries to take a breath, something takes a breath for her.

That wakes her up pretty quick.

Her eyes open, dart around. She doesn’t know where she is. It’s night time, she’s in a room, there’s a body curled up in the chair by the window, and she is hooked up to all these things, making it very clear that she is not going anywhere anytime soon.

That incessant beat is actually the monitors that record pulse, respiration, and some other thing that she doesn’t know what it is. On the other side of the bed is (what she assumes to be) a respirator, which is why when she tries to take her own breaths, the air rushes into her lungs without her permission. It is strangely uncomfortable.

She moves her arm and quickly figures out that, too, is hooked up to a bunch of shit. Medicine, she guesses. The arm that does not have a needle in it goes up to her face. She’s got a tube in her nose (not sure what that’s for), and to her dismay, she finds that a good chunk of her hair is missing.

_Dammit._

Max Caulfield actually fucked up her brain. 

She looks around, trying to find something to get someone’s attention because she wants this damn respirator out, and she doesn’t particularly want a tube in her nose, and she’d like to know what the fuck happened.

A-ha, a remote looking thing. The one that has the speaker for the TV so you can actually hear it amidst the bustling of people dying and shit. There happens to be a button with a depiction of what seems to be a nurse, considering it has a little hat with a cross on it, so that must be how you get the nurse to come in. (She also finds the control for the lights and dims them considerably because her eyes hurt really bad.)

Max presses the button, and a young, tired, brunette woman with her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail appears.

“Oh, look who’s up.”

Not exactly what she expected to be greeted with.

Max can’t exactly speak because she has tubes all down her throat, so she waves her free hand around to try to get her to tell her what’s happening, but the nurse doesn’t really get it. Well, she does, but Max is frustrated because she can’t say, “What the fucking hell is going on, and where am I, and what happened?”

“Let me get you something to write with.” 

The nurse comes back with a notebook and a pen. Max finds it difficult to hold the pen correctly, so she settles for a death grip.

She writes, _Where am I?_ Her handwriting is atrocious and it takes the nurse a few seconds to decipher what she’s trying to communicate, but she figures it out.

“You’re in the neuro ICU,” she says. Max taps the pen on the word “where” again. “Oh, you’re in Sacramento. We know you’re from Oregon, but you haven’t been stable enough to transfer you anywhere after surgery. You’re uh…” the nurse pauses and looks at the girl sleeping in the chair who, now that Max is a little bit more oriented, is obviously Chloe, “—wife told us that your parents are living in Seattle right now. They’ve been notified.”

Max furrows her brow because she can’t remember getting married to Chloe, but who knows what’s happened. She can’t remember much. 

She writes, _What happened?_

“Well, the neuro team can give you the specifics, but basically, your brain bled, and you were having partial seizures for a while, which would explain your hallucinations.”

Hallucinations? Oh, yeah, Rachel. Max wonders if the doctors know about her rewind. Best not ask since they might think she’s still nuts.

“Also, you had a GI bleed, er, you had bleeding in your stomach, so that’s why you were throwing up blood.”

Yikes. Max wonders how the nurses know that, but she can only imagine a crumpled up Maxine Caulfield on the dirty California ground in a pool of her own blood as Chloe looks down, horrified.

She decides not to think about it. 

 _When can I get this—_ Max points to the tube that’s hooked up to the respirator, _—out?_

 “Respiratory Therapy has to make sure you can breathe on your own.”

Max breathes in and puts her hand out in frustration. 

“Yeah, I know you can take spontaneous breaths, but you’ll have to wait until the morning.”

She glares, but the nurse has obviously seen worse, and it’s not like Max can do anything but lay there anyway. 

“Sorry, I don’t make the rules,” the nurse says. “Do you need anything?”

Max shakes her head. Nothing that the nurse can do at least.

 

* * *

 

When Chloe wakes up and sees that Max is up, she's relieved, to say the least.

"I would hug you if I were allowed to, but you're kinda hooked up to a lot. The nurses say no hugs. I asked."

Max would laugh if she weren't hooked up to a lot. Instead, she writes, _So, I’m your wife now?_

Chloe takes an especially long time trying to figure out what her chicken scratch says, but once she does, she bursts out laughing.

“I mean, they let you stay after visiting hours if you’re part of the family.” Chloe shrugs. “And, it’s legal in California.”

Max wishes she could smile sweetly, but she’s got this damn tube shoved down her throat and it is really quite annoying. 

Instead, she writes, “:)”

Chloe grins and says, “No Emoji.”

 

* * *

 

She’s off the respirator in the morning. Max has made a “miraculous recovery” according to the Neuro team, considering she was in respiratory failure and bleeding from practically every orifice just a few days ago. The other tube in her nose was a tube feed, which was also removed considering she can use her mouth just fine now. The bleeding in her stomach basically healed itself, clotting and all that.

But, the docs are all confounded as to _why_ Max was basically dying. No high blood pressure, so family history, no warning signs. 

“I…can’t tell them I…can re-rewind time, right?” Max asks Chloe softly so the attending can’t hear out in the hall. She finds she is having a lot of trouble talking normally. Her speech is slow. Certain sounds are harder than others. It’s like she can’t get her mouth to move correctly.

It would be a lie to say Chloe wasn’t a little scared for Max, but Chloe has done a lot of lying in her day, so to stop now would really be a travesty.

“I would hard pass on that one unless you want a psych eval.” 

“Sounds…like you have some…experience.” 

“Well, y’know.”

Max sighs, slumping down in her bed. 

“What’s wrong, Mad Max?” Chloe asks. “Other than the obvious, I mean.” 

“I don’t know.” She pauses, staring in front of her, eyes vacant. “I feel…I feel weird. This—” Max moves her hands around in a strange pattern to indicated that she is talking about the entire hospital, “—feels un-unecess-ssary.” 

She gets the message. 

“Why the hell would this be _unnecessary?_ ” Chloe balks. “Your fucking brain was bleeding.”

“I…I don’t know. Bec-cause I did it to…my-myself?”

“You didn’t _know_ it was happening, though. You can’t beat yourself up for that shit.” 

“I know…I know.” She still sighs.

Her mouth can’t quite get out what she wants to say, but her brain can’t really formulate what she wants to say, either. It’s really quite weird. Occupational and physical therapy has already been around to tell her that they’d help her get back to normal (after all, she is doing much better than they thought possible!), but not being able to move or talk correctly hurts more than rewinding does.

Speaking of rewinding, can she even do it anymore if doctors have fixed what was wrong with her brain?

(She doesn’t know. She’s too scared to try.)

Chloe is thinking the same thing.

"Can you still rewind?"

"I do-don't know."

Chloe twiddles her thumbs.

“Well, it’d be better to try in the hospital. If you have another…episode, medical care is in close proximity.”

Chloe’s logic is less than solid, but she does have a point. Although, it seems weird that she’s willing to see Max risk her life than to just abstain. Does she not trust her? Well, maybe after the whole ordeal, she wouldn't trust her either.

Max lifts her hand and stares at the wall in front of her. A flash of panic flies through her, and she can't get herself to do it, she can't get herself to do it, she is took scared that she will  _kill herself_ , that all the work the doctors and surgeons have done will go to waste, and she can't do it even just to put their minds at ease.

"I can't do it," Max sighs, letting her hand flop onto her lap.

She doesn't realize that Chloe might take this the wrong way.

"Thank God," Chloe sighs, rubbing her eyes as if she hasn't slept since The Storm.

Max opens her mouth to correct herself, but she sees the relief in Chloe's movements and decides that maybe

(it's better to live a lie than worry about the truth.)

 

* * *

 

“You have a visitor,” the nurse says. 

Max is expecting her parents considering they said they’d be around to see her later that day. Maybe they’re early.

But, who steps in the room is certainly not her parents.

“Hey.”

In her signature pencil skirt, blouse, and pearls, Victoria Chase stands in the doorway.

Max isn’t sure what to say, but Chloe certainly does.

“Yo, it’s Queen Bitch of Blackwell.”

Victoria is not phased by this insult as it is true – or more accurately _was true_ considering Blackwell is now a pile of rubble. She just rolls her eyes.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” she mutters, “Or have your lap dog yap at me.”

“Oh, _okay_ , is that how it’s going to be?” Chloe snarls.

“Chloe, p-please d-don’t,” Max snaps. Well, it sort of comes out as a slow mumble, but she’s trying her best. Victoria is visibly shaken by Max’s state. She knew Max was in the hospital, but no one had told her she’d look and sound like this. 

“Whatever. _I_ don’t want to talk to her.”

“Okay, then don’t,” Victoria spits back, arms crossed tight over her chest, “I didn’t come to talk to _you_.”

“Ugh, why are you even _here_ —” 

“I came to talk to Max, not deal with your anger problems.”

“What the fuck do you want from her—”

“Guys!” 

Max is sitting up in bed (for the first time on her own), and she has an unreadable expression on her face. It is a cross between frustration and indifference. 

“Can you guys stop it?” she asks, voice raised just a bit. 

Chloe sighs, holding her hands up in surrender. “Okay, sure. Gotta go out for a smoke anyway.”

The two girls watch as Chloe grabs her pack of cigarettes from the table and walks out. Chloe doesn’t bother to look at Victoria on the way out. Victoria couldn’t care less. She never really bought into the faux punk bullshit anyway.

Max flops back in her bed and stares blankly at Victoria. 

“Why are you here?” 

The blonde lets out the huge sigh, and she looks like she’s about to go into a speech she has readily prepared with flashcards or maybe just practiced in her head over and over again. 

“Okay, look. Usually, I’m not the whole clingy, ‘I’m going to hunt you down’-type, but I’ve been kind of going nuts trying to figure this whole thing out, and I’m really trying not to be a total bitch to literally everyone, and I…”

Victoria trails off. Guess her speech preparations didn’t quite work as well as she thought.

“How did you know I was here?”

She looks off to the side and frowns.

“I called your parents. Google is really good for finding people, as it turns out.”

For the first time in this whole interaction, Max shows emotion, but the only emotion strong enough at this point is confusion.

“You called _my parents?_ ”

“Yeah, so, that’s what I was talking about with the clingy thing—I don’t really do this, but hear me out, okay?”

Max frowns. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“ _Right_ ,” she replies cautiously, internally cringing at her own awkwardness. Emotions other than anger don’t come too easily to Victoria. “Anyway—” she sighs again, “—so this is just going to be really weird, so I’m just going to say it because I think you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

The conversation keeps getting weirder and weirder, so Max has a little bit of trouble keeping her face from tensing up with worry.

“Okay…”

“Jefferson kidnapped me. Well, drugged and kidnapped me. Uh, I mean assaulted me, then drugged me, then kidnapped me.” Her explanation is cut off by her own nervous laughter. “Sorry, I haven’t really talked about it, so I’m kind of freaked out. Um, anyway! So, yeah, that happened, but somehow David Madsen figured out where I was, and he said he knew because _you told him_.”

Max had been just staring at Victoria until she mentioned her involvement. That’s when Max’s eyes widen.

“Oh.”

“So, I guess, uh—you—you knew, didn’t you?” Victoria asks quietly.

“I—“

“I know you knew because David told me you did." The words fall out of her mouth, picking up in speed and intensity. Her words sound angry, but even with Max’s foggy brain, she can tell that Victoria really is concerned, or at the very least, confused. She likes to act angry to cover up that she cares about things, even when she’s trying hard not to be angry. That’s what Max has figured out thus far. 

“I guess what I’m asking is how the fuck did you know I was down there?” 

Max isn’t sure what to say. The truth? Nah, she’d think Max was nuts. 

Victoria interrupts her thoughts.

“W-Were you down there?”

She hadn’t realized that she had been staring at her bed sheets until she had to look up to meet Victoria’s eyes. Max freezes up. Victoria keeps talking.

“You _were_ down there.” 

“Why are you doing this?” Max sighs, almost pleading. She does _not_ want to have this conversation.

“I’m not doing _anything_. You’re hiding something, or at the very least, you’ve got some kind of—I don’t know. It’s just been driving me crazy trying to figure out how you knew, and I’m—ugh sorry, I’m not actually trying to start a fight.” 

“Right,” Max retorts with as much sarcasm as she can muster, but considering her speech isn’t exactly up to par, Victoria doesn’t quite get it.

“No, really. I honestly—ugh—okay, I’m sorry I treat you like shit, okay? I have a problem with being a bitch, and trust me, I know. But, after almost dying, I’ve been trying to not be so much of a bitch.”

As much as Victoria is a walking disaster trying to apologize, Max does have to admit that this is probably the most she’s seen Victoria try to be nice, and it is an improvement. But, that doesn’t change the fact that this is a difficult matter to be talking about, especially since Max is 100% not over her own bout with Mr. Mark Jefferson.

(Ugh, his name still gives her chills.)

“Uh, okay. …So I don’t remember exactly what I told David. I was kinda…spaced out at the time. Um, but if David said I told him, then, I probably did. I don’t know why he’d make it up.”

“Right,” Victoria says, leaning into her hip. Her face has a look of concern slapped on it, and it looks like a badly done makeup job. “But, how did you know?”

Max holds up her hand. “Look. If I tell you, you’re going to think I’m crazy.” She’s already regretting where this conversation is headed. She very much does not want to be having it right now. 

“Honestly, I don’t know what to believe anymore.” The vacant look in her eyes relays the nights of lost sleep and the hours spent turning the experience over and over in her head. For a second, Max can see a flash of the fear that Victoria never lets anyone see, not even her closest friends. 

Well, not since Nathan, at least.

“Er, yeah. So…if you're convinced I was down _there_ , it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to say that, uh, you were down there with me, r-right?” 

Victoria’s eyes grow darker. The idea does not sound too far-fetched. As she said, she doesn’t know what to believe anymore. 

After all, all her friends are dead. Max and (unfortunately) Chloe, are the only people (sans her parents) that she has left.

“Right.”

“I guess, I must have just had a feeling.” Max shrugs. “I don’t know.”

(Max gets the idea that she shouldn’t tell the whole story. Victoria actually looks legitimately upset.) 

“What, so like, you’ve got alternate timelines and stuff? Or more like _Perfect Blue,_ and you’re hallucinating and shit?”

Max doesn’t know what _Perfect Blue_ is, but hallucinating is a thing.

“Uh…”

“Sorry, I just don’t understand.”

“Yeah, me either.” 

This seems to make Victoria visibly disconcerted. Before she was just nervous, but Max can see the sadness and fear creep up and prick at her eyes.

“I’m just—I’m just—” Victoria looks like she’s about as freaked out as Max feels on the inside, as if Victoria is seeing the same images as Max, the ones that flash through their heads when they’re not even trying to think about it—it’s just all so much, all too much. “I’m freaking out, okay? That was—“ she swallows, “—one of the worst experiences of my entire life, and I’m freaking.”

Max understands, but she doesn’t really want to be thinking about this right now. 

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“So, you admit, you were down here.”

Max sighs. “Yes. I was.” 

This seems to be the answer that Victoria was looking for because she turns around, hands on her forehead and pretending like she’s not holding back tears. 

“ _Fuck._ ” It’s a whisper but not enough of a whisper that Max doesn’t hear her.

“Are you,” Max frowns, not sure what to say, “okay?” 

Victoria turns back around. She’s fanning her face to keep tears from falling and ruining her perfectly done makeup.

“S-Sorry, I just—I was such shit to you,” she mutters, “and I had no idea. Fuck—“

“Victoria,” Max cuts in, feeling her own headache/tears coming on, “it’s fine.” 

“How,” (it’s like she can’t form a sentence without pausing half way through) “were you able to get out?”

Max doesn’t know how to answer that question. Lie? Tell the truth? Will Victoria even believe her if she told the truth?

“Same way as you. David found us.”

“How did he _know_ , though?”

Max sighs, hand going to her forehead. Headache. She needs more pain meds. 

“Shit,” Victoria says, looking down at the ground. “Sorry, I know you’re sick.”

Max nods, mostly because she would rather play the “I’m sick at the hospital” card than explain that she can rewind time and jump through photographs.

“Would you mind if I texted you, and we talked after you’re feeling better?”

She isn’t sure if this is because Victoria wants to find closure or if it’s because Victoria actually is trying to give a fuck. 

“Yeah. That’s fine.” 

Victoria nods solemnly.

“Okay. Sorry to dump all this on you.” She smiles a tiny little smile as she says, “See you around, Max.”

Max puts her hand up as if she is going to wave, but she doesn’t. Neither are sure why, so Victoria just turns around and leaves.

She has to wonder if this is a crisis averted or a crisis put off.

Maybe she’ll have the energy later to worry about it. Instead, she closes her eyes and dozes off into a dreamless slumber.

It's always dreamless, now.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Max.”

Max’s eyes open slowly to see a familiar face standing in the doorway. Blue hair, not blonde. That’s good. 

“Hey.”

“How’d your talk with Queen Bitch go?” 

Max squints because sleep has made time seem to stretch out. Did she talk to Victoria two minutes ago or two days ago? It occurs to her that she may never have a normal concept of time again.

“It was…weird. But, she left, so.”

“I can see that,” Chloe grins. “I thought it was weird that she like, came to California to talk to you, but I guess she's got the money.”

She hadn’t thought of that. A part of her still falls back on the idea that she is in Arcadia Bay. Hell, one of her alternate selves may be in a different timeline where she _is_ in Arcadia Bay. 

(Try not to think about that.)

“Yeah…weird…”

Chloe wanders over to the chair by the window and sets her pack of cigarettes on the sill. She sits in the chair, leaning back, hand folded behind her head, ankle crossed over her knee.

“More excitement than any of us needs in one day.”

As if on queue, the sliding door opens.

“Max?” 

Both girls look over, eyes wide because the voice is very familiar.

“Mom? Dad?”

Sure enough, it’s Mr. and Mrs. Caulfield.

“Oh, goodness, honey,” Vanessa says, rushing over, sitting on the bed, and taking her daughter in a huge hug. “We were worried sick. Our calls weren’t going through, and when we saw the news, we practically went down there right then—“ 

Max’s father, Ryan, hangs by the entrance to the room and clears his throat, “We don’t need to give all the details right now.” His lips turn into a wide grin. “We’re just glad you’re alright, Max.” Vanessa lets her daughter go, and Max just kind of sits there, staring blankly at them. “Well, relatively.”

He means “not dead,” but no one’s going to say that out loud.

“Hey, Mom. Dad,” Max says slowly so she doesn’t trip over her own words. “Sorry I…didn’t call you…” 

“It’s alright. We were just worried, that’s all,” Ryan says, giving a whole hearted smile that just makes the atmosphere seem lighter even though it is clearly an uncomfortable situation.

“Are you in any pain?” Vanessa asks. Max shakes her head no. Sleep has made her headache go away. 

Chloe uses this as an opportunity to remind everyone that she still exists.

“Nope, she’s doped up on tons of pain-killers,” she teases, shooting Max a wide smile. “Right, Maximill?”

Max nods and gives her own small smile. It’s true. She can’t feel a damn thing because they’ve got her on every pill under the sun. It also makes her slow and a bit confused, but she’d rather that than be in pain and puking up blood.

“Oh, Chloe, I almost didn’t recognize you,” Ryan chirps, coming over and patting her on the head like he used to do when they were, like, ten years old. “How you been, kiddo?” 

“Well, not the greatest, but hey, we’re both alive, right?”

Ryan laughs uncomfortably. She said it out loud. Leave it to Chloe to be blunt.

Max is glad to have her around.

 

* * *

 

With Max’s parents in town, the whole process goes a lot faster. The doctors say that Max is doing so well that she can be discharged soon. Plans are made for her to go to outpatient care in Seattle since, well, Blackwell has been wiped off the map, so no reason to go back to Arcadia Bay. 

(Max looks away as the doctors are talking, trying not to let guilt creep up on her. It isn’t working.)

 

* * *

 

Discharge day comes sooner than Max expects. She still doesn’t feel totally like herself, but apparently, that doesn’t matter because her parents are helping her get changed into clothes that they brought for her.

(Her signature jeans and red butterfly shirt are absolutely disgusting and covered in blood and dirt and hurricane and guilt.)

She’s glad when they give her a wheelchair to leave the hospital. She barely has the energy to stay awake let alone _walk_. 

Max sits on the edge of the bed and looks down at her shoes. They’re more worn than she remembers them being. She leans down to tie them, but she keeps fucking up, dropping shoelaces and fumbling with her fingers.

“Dammit.” 

Chloe notices Max’s exasperation.

“Hey, hey, I’ll get it.” Chloe crouches down and ties a perfect little bow. Max’s eyebrows are knit together. “It’ll take a bit of time to get back to normal,” she starts as she stands up and puts a hand on her shoulder. “But, the doctors said you’ll recover just fine. Just give it time, alright?” 

Time, time, time. 

What a concept.

Vanessa pokes her head through the doorway. “You girls coming?”

Chloe puts on her ‘I’m talking to my girlfriend’s parents’ face and flips around. “Yep! Sorry about that, we were just getting some shoes on ‘er.” She turns back around and looks at Max who hasn’t left her place sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. “Can you get yourself to the wheelchair?”

Max nods, but she doesn’t move.

“Need help?” Chloe asks. Max nods again. She places her hands on Chloe’s offered forearm. “Feet first.” Indeed, her feet hit the ground first, but she stumbles a bit when trying to get upright. “Oops, don’t fall.”

Vanessa watches the two girls with a mix of concern and confusion. She remembers when the two girls were still kids and running around their yard, and now—

(Chloe looks like a rebel, blue hair and tattoos to boot. And, Max just looks so sick—so out of it. The doctor had explained the seriousness of Max’s previous condition, but what worries her the most is that they can’t explain how her daughter got like that in the first place.)

“Hey, look! You did it. You’re standing!” Chloe exclaims, beaming with an almost palpable sense of adoration. “And, look! The wheelchair is right here. You just gotta turn—” She pivots the girl around and pushes the chair a little closer at the same time. Max tries to sit down carefully, but her attempt to be graceful becomes an unceremonious flop, legs not used to such an action. She had done this with a physical therapist just yesterday, but for some reason, it is harder when she’s wearing street clothes and the entire world is crushing her again.

She’s got to act _normal_. Yeesh.

“Do you have her?” Vanessa asks, glancing between Max and Chloe.

“Got her right here, Mrs. Caulfield.” 

She smiles and watches Chloe push her daughter out into the hall. Ryan is animatedly talking to a nurse at the station with computers, and Vanessa has to call him over. Chloe thinks this is funny because a lot of her memories about the Caulfields are that Mrs. Caulfield is more stoic and reserved while Mr. Caulfield is quite the talker and hard to shut up.

And, Max is both at the same time. Funny how that works. 

Chloe pushes her towards the elevators, her parents along side.

“Do you need a ride back to Arcadia?” Ryan asks Chloe. Chloe looks down at Max, and Max looks back up at her. 

“Well, I, uh—”

Super Max swings in for the rescue.

“She’s got her truck, but—Dad? Can C-Chloe stay with us…just for a bit?”

Ryan and Vanessa look at each other, both communicating silently as couples often do when they spend too much time together.

“I don’t see why not,” Vanessa answers after a few minutes.

“I could always drive your truck if you want to ride with Max,” Ryan chimes in, sounding a little too chipper for the situation.

Ryan is probably just very uncomfortable since this whole situation is weird, weird, weird. 

“I mean,” Chloe looks down at Max and Max nods quickly, “sure, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s no trouble. I’d hate for you to be cooped up by yourself.”

Chloe has to think that Max’s parents are really caring. She’s very lucky to have them.

_Hm._

 

* * *

 

The ride back is long but uneventfully. They sleep most of it.

The girls need their rest, after all.

 

* * *

 

Max wakes up in her room. Not her room at Blackwell, but her room in Seattle. It is just how she left it, poster and rug, and boxes of books, and all. 

She looks around, trying to orient herself.

It’s day time. Rain pats on the windows. Her head hurts. Chloe is sitting at her desk, scrolling through her phone. 

(Max doesn’t even know where her phone is.)

She lets out a groan, which alerts Chloe that she’s awake now.

“Hey.”

Chloe makes her way over and sits on the bed next to her. Max sits up, hand pressed to her forehead.

“Headache?” 

“Killer,” Max answers.

“Lucky you, I got pain killers.”

Chloe reaches over to her bedside table and grabs one of those pill containers that old people have because they take so many pills to stay alive. It’s got slots for every day and for several hours of every day. Chloe shakes out “TUESDAY AFTERNOON” and gives Max a handful of pills.

“Hospitals are the real hook up, y’know?” Chloe grins, passing over a cup of water that was also on the bedside table.

“Ha ha.” Max isn’t amused, but Chloe isn’t wrong, either. 

“How you feeling, Mad Max? Well, besides the headache.”

Max takes the handful of pills, takes a sip, has trouble swallowing them all, coughs, and then hands the cup of water to Chloe.

“Like shit, but better.” 

Chloe laughs and her contagious smile curls on her face.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

There is a beat of silence and—oh no—they don’t know what to say to each other, their script has run out. It’s just like being in the hotels and not knowing what to say to each other.

It gets uncomfortable fast. Fortunately, Chloe breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry." 

Max scrunches her face. “Huh?”

“I kinda didn’t help, did I?” 

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, before the hospital. I was too worried about everything to make sure you were okay.” 

“No, Chloe, it’s not like that.”

“Yeah, it kind of is. I just thought it would be different if we went to California.”

Max feels her enter body turn heavy with the sorrow of someone who has the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“I think the problem is,” Chloe takes a breath, looking out through the window at the rain before continuing, “we started this in a really bad place.”

It is not a lie. They were both heavily traumatized by this experience. For a moment, Max is forced to reflect on that week of terrors, and—

(It’s true/it’s true/it’s all true/she can’t think about That Room/she can’t think about That Girl/she can’t even look at the clock without being reminded that)

“I-I’m a murderer.”

“Okay, shh…” Chloe leans forward and threads blue fingers through brown hair. “This is what I mean. We keep getting at each other's throats because we can’t talk about anything. Like, we’re both in a really fucking bad place.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Max says almost automatically. It’s like it’s a defense mechanism.

“Well, first of all, it _is_ kind of my fault, and second, it doesn’t matter who’s fault it is,” Chloe says softly, trying not to upset Max further. “I mean, we can have this talk later if you want.” 

“No, that’s not it.” Max is able to talk faster than she has in a few days. It gives Chloe a little more hope. “I think…it’s important to talk about. The timing will probably _never_ be right. I’m just—so angry at myself? I guess that’s a lot of it. I’m blaming myself for everything, and it…literally drove me insane.”

A heavy sigh heaves Chloe’s shoulders. “Yeah. That was hella scary.” Fingers run through blue hair. Chloe is nervous. “I don’t mean that any particular way. I’m just agreeing with you. You’re a really great person, y’know? And even though that little, er, nagging voice—or maybe it’s Rachel, I don’t know—tells you shit like, ‘Oh, I’m a terrible person, and I killed people,” it’s not _true_. I guess—I guess, I’m just saying, _I get it._ Maybe not like you do, but I’ve got that Angry Thought Generator in there, too.” Chloe taps her temple, her mouth twisted into an uncomfortable frown. 

“Yeah,” Max whispers, looking down at the sheets like she used to do in hotel rooms.

“I’m fucked up too, Max. I know it’s not fucking normal to be throwing up all the time, or whatever. I know I get angry for no reason, and I’m overemotional, and I do stuff without thinking about it first. Like, I _know_. And, I mean, I think I just gotta deal with it. I think I have to actually commit to trying to get better.”

Max looks back up at Chloe and gives a sad smile.

“That’s…really mature of you.” 

“Heh, it is, isn’t it?” Chloe grins, giving Max a slight nudge on the shoulder with her fist. “Guess you got to me, Caulfield.”

“I wouldn’t call my actions _mature_ , so much as _selfish_.”

“Hey, you gotta be selfish sometimes. If you always help other people, then you don’t have any energy for yourself.” 

( _Chloe is the number one priority._ )

“Oh.” 

“You’re really good at helping other people, but I think you get a little too wrapped up in it. You did a lot of great things, and you helped a lot of people, including me. So, take a load off, Super Max. Gotta give your brain a chance for it to heal up.” 

She nods slowly, Chloe’s words sinking in.

“Yeah,” she mumbles, still staring. “I just wanted to say sorry for getting you in this mess.”

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, so don’t sweat it, alright?” 

“Alright.”

“And, guess what?”

“What?”

Chloe’s teeth flash as her lips stretch into a shit-eating grin.

“I kinda like you, so I’m sticking around, okay?”

Max gives her own smile, and for the first time in several weeks, it feels genuine.

“I kinda like you, too.” 

She’s glad she doesn’t have to say, "love," because at this point, Max isn’t sure she loves anything in the entire world. But, also, her brain is a little fucked and these medications make her slow and flat.

“I’m tired,” Max says, kind of automatically and without thinking about it. 

“I bet. Mind if I join you in a nap?” Chloe asks, her grin reappearing. 

“Not at all.”

“Good because I don’t want to sleep in a chair anymore.”

They lay down and Max hopes that, for once, she will have a dream and, if she does, it will not be about people who have died. 

A moment passes.

"Hey, Max."

"Hm?"

Max's eyes open. Chloe is looking quite wistful, which is strange for her.

"Do you remember the time we broke into Blackwell's Pool?"

How could she forget? Memories of that time flood back to her, but she does remember the sense of happiness and peace that she felt when she and Chloe floated there.

But her mind has also heard this before.

(You _were so scared. But, what more can I expect from a little chicken shit like you?_ )

"Yeah," Max squeaks. "Why?"

"Oh, I was just thinking. That's one of my favorite memories of us together."

Her breath catches in her throat, and Max is filled with a warmth and happiness she never thought she'd feel again. Now that Chloe mentions it, that's one of her favorite memories, too.

Max leans into Chloe and places a gentle kiss on her lips.

"Mine too," she beams. 

Chloe laughs, her cheeks turning bright red.

"Okay, tiger. Let's sleep now."

With a sigh, she answers, "Yeah, sounds good."

A moment passes.

" _Hey, Max._ "

"Hm?"

Max’s eyes open.

She expects to see blue hair, but she see’s a blue feather instead.

She can’t help the gasp that shakes her entire body. 

 _A hand brushes Max’s hair back behind her ear. The fingers are not tinged blue._  

“ _Hey, don’t look so sad. I said that I’m never leaving you_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It's my first completed multichapter story! I'd like to thank everyone who followed this and left such nice comments. I had the honor of seeing Halsey live in concert, and she's so happy now, and she said she's ending the Badlands era after the last of her shows, so I guess it's pretty cool that my story is coming to an end now, too. If y'all haven't heard Badlands, go listen to it (because if you haven't guessed, this is a shameless songfic lol). Aaah! I'm just so happy that y'all have been so supportive and amazing. 
> 
> We've escaped the Badlands everyone! Remember — keep close, stand tall. :)
> 
> (I'd also like to thank Halsey, and Perfect Blue, and Life is Strange, and all the random media I've consumed that lead me to write this. Media is awesome eue )


End file.
